Crumbs, and Immature Anger

Overall, you are pathetic.
You're begging for crumbs
of attention and throwing
every morsel of blame
towards the hollow you left of me.
In the end, you are sick.
(Not even the good kind.)
The thing that you are,
or what you've become -
who really knows,
I never knew you-
is a sniveling child.
Crawling for all I have,
yet you were the one who
left the bruises.
But I suppose I deserve this.
I cut you into little pieces,
slowly, I did what you're doing to me.
But god, I swear, I didn't mean it.
I didn't intend to for all the blood
shed, sides taken.
But it becomes something
more when you can't take
your part of the responsibility,
instead throwing every
mistake in my face.
Overall, you are patheitc.
And this is the last
part of me you're getting;
my very worst,
immature, selfish, childish parts;
because that's what you
gave me.
Your worst.