The Ask

They came with soft words,

like petals in bloom,

But carried the weight of an unspoken doom.

Eyes full of need,

lips shaped to plead,

And I,

a fool perhaps,

paused to heed.

It wasn’t the first

nor the last,

I presume

That hands reached for gold I did not exhume

From some endless vault of inherited grace,

But carved from long nights in a silent place.

They said it was small,

just a favor,

just this.

A whisper of help,

a momentary miss.

But woven beneath it,

a silence that screamed:

"I know what you have. You’re not what you seem."

No mention of pride,

no nod to the cost,

No thought for the nights I considered all lost.

The meals I skipped,

the peace I sold,

To warm my dreams against the cold.

What do they see when they see me now?

Just open doors and a furrowed brow?

A bank with a heart?

A friend without lines?

A tree that forgets when you hack at its vines?

The ask

it came plain,

like it always does,

Not out of love,

not out of trust,

But from the assumption I wouldn’t say no,

That guilt is a garden I’m still forced to grow.

It’s not the money.

No,

never that.

It’s how they speak with the voice of a cat

Purring,

poised,

but claws in the rug,

Masking a favor in a velvet hug.

It’s in the silence after I pause,

The way they flinch like I’ve broken some law.

As if saying "no" is the cruelest sin,

And I’m selfish for guarding the world within.

What of my needs,

my unseen ache?

The debt I carry,

the breath I fake?

What of the times I swallowed my pride

And still gave more than I could hide?

Respect is a currency rarer than gold,

Yet they spend it fast and come back bold.

Not with repayment,

not with thanks

Just more demands from empty banks.

I watch them leave with lighter hearts,

While mine bears bruises in hidden parts.

And I ask myself,

behind closed doors,

Why kindness feels like unpaid chores.

Perhaps it’s time I draw the line,

Between being generous and being mine.

To give with heart is a sacred art,

But not when it tears your soul apart.

So next time they come with eyes cast low,

I’ll weigh not just the debt they owe,

But the silence,

the shame,

the years I bled

And speak for once what’s left unsaid.

Because love is not a loan to call,

And I am not their rise or fall.

I give when moved,

not when pressed

And I will no longer give what leaves me less.