There are still holes lining my chest from the bullets you fired at me when you spoke. It's ironic how you were always complaining about your terrible aim. There are still pieces of glass lodged into my skin from the broken jar of your promises. I thought I noticed a new crack every time you made another promise. You were destroying me. Layer by layer, bullet by bullet, promise by promise. Time may heal torn skin, but blood stains do not wash out. Maybe one day, you'll run out of bullets. Maybe one day, you'll realize that the only person you should've been aiming your gun at was yourself.