My Birthday

Alt title: When did this poem suddenly become about you?

Why do I find myself counting those who send me good tidings,
When I know in my heart of hearts that I don't want to be loved.
That I shouldn't be loved.
Because love is baggage. Love is pain.
Love is a rope that starts at my waist and frays and captures the hearts of passerbys in its strands
And when I fall, inevitably,
I rip my friends apart.
I know because of my own bleeding heart, bereaved too many times. I wish it not upon you.
So I don't need your well wishes. I am, in truth, repelled.
I don't expect your lifeline.
I know by now that you do not care.
That the chapter is over, and that book is closed,
doused,
burnt.
Never to be printed again.
So why do I find myself
(and it is lethal to acknowledge this, that I am)
Waiting for your name
My brain glances your way
Every moment of every day
It hurts, because if not today, then most likely never
So many fish in the proverbial sea
But for now,
You are the only one for me.