Always I’ve carried your burdens
as if they were feathers—
light enough for me to bear,
soft enough to cradle.

But when I extend
my own rough palms,
you turn away—
your eyes a closed door,
your silence a stone wall.

I fed you kindness
like a river that never runs dry,
yet in my hour of thirst
you offered only empty cups,
the echo of my own voice.

Now bitterness pools
beneath my ribs,
a traitor’s tide rising
against the shores of generosity.

Tell me, was my help
so cheap?
Or simply inconvenient
when it wasn’t wrapped
in your convenience?