Writers 
The Weapons I Taught You to Use
I swore never to bite
the hand that feeds me,
until I was bitten
by the mouth I fed.
I was stabbed constantly
in the back, only to see
it was the person I taught
how to handle the knife properly.
The bullet went straight to my heart
as I stared at the same person
I taught how to aim
at their target.
I was stepped on
by the shoe I bought
for that same person.
So I asked myself,
why and how?
Maybe I was too distracted
by teaching them
that I forgot to ask
who they wanted to use it on.
Maybe I was so busy
making sure they had everything
they needed to survive
that I forgot to protect
the little I had left of myself.
Maybe I mistook their gratitude
for loyalty,
their smiles for sincerity,
and their presence for love.
Or maybe I was just too blind
to see that not everyone
I helped was willing to see me win.
Maybe I caused it all myself, sef.
Maybe I gave too much,
trusted too easily,
and expected kindness
from hands I had only taught to take.
But then again,
was it really my fault
that someone I helped
chose to become my pain?
I keep searching for answers
in the memories we made,
looking for the moment
everything changed.
Just maybe,
it was all my fault.
