Failure.
A promise made to so many, and yet in a fit of anger, betrayed. A gift, lent in trust (don't you know that i can't be trusted? promises are made to be broken) used for pained means, a small trickle of blood that even now will not remedy the problem; too many problems. Even so, such a discrepancy in my faith found answers, and questions; endless questions that will not be answered (why do you refuse me?) and merely cause pain, more pain than this frail shell can handle. Fragile and broken, what was once is now lost; what I am is a fragment of what I could be. Margin of error, lost in the shadowy dark of depression and anger.
Failure.
A promise; I promised you, and I feel such hatred toward myself for breaking my word (oathbreakers; am i unable to be loved for my pain), yet you feel nothing for utterances made in vain. Love is meaningless, as it cannot fix such "friction," you say. Friction made by you, friction smoothed away by the calm waters of love should you choose to accept it.
Or do you truly not love me at all?