They approach without hesitation
because I make it easy.
It disgusts me in a way.
With outstretched hands
and trembling tones,
they make their request.

A closed throat,
tight lips—
hesitation dripping
in anxious silence.
I answer,
because silence feels like cruelty
when someone is drowning.

I’m the anchor in their chaos,
the post they lean on,
the order in their mess.
Yet no one asks
if I’ve grown tired of standing still.

How many fires must I drown
with ashes from my own collapse?
Praise tastes hollow
when it’s served on a platter of exhaustion.
Strong, they say—
as if strong means disposable.

I’m called dependable,
like it’s a gift—
not a burden.
The agonizing truth is:
my heart refuses to say no,
even when it begs to be spared.
It pounds like a war drum,
dragging me toward battles
I never chose,
for causes I don’t believe in.

Is my existence tied
to what I offer others?
To hold their weight
while burying my own?
Do I exist to be the bridge—
walked on, then forgotten
once the crossing’s complete?
Left alone, burning?

They still call.
I still answer.
Most nights, I wonder—
am I truly valued,
or just expected?

Flattery has faded.
Connection has thinned.
I’d rather be wanted
for standing my ground,
than needed
for giving myself away.