People who hate themselves
will always
make you pay
for loving them.
They'll hand you the bill
for every tenderness,
punish you softly
for seeing beauty
where they see ruins.
You offer love;
they return a mirror
shattered by doubt,
edges sharp enough
to wound your kindness.
When you bleed for them,
they will call it proof
that love was never meant for them
in the first place.
And in their ache,
they'll turn your light
into something heavy,
a debt you never owed,
but always pay.
