People seem impressed by independence
as if it were something I cultivated
rather than something that grew in
to fill in the cracks.
I know how to ask politely.
I know how to soften the edges
of a perfectly reasonable request,
how to make it smaller,
less inconvenient,
less likely to disturb
the delicate architecture
of someone else’s afternoon.
No worries.
I completely understand.
Thank you anyway.
God, I fucking understand.
Everyone has a reason.
Everyone is busy.
Everyone is tired.
Everyone has their own shit
and carefully maintained boundaries.
But I have spent years understanding
myself right out of the equation.
The thing is,
the ugly little truth
I keep chewing on
until my gums bleed:
I would have shown up with
whatever I had left.
And I know,
I know,
that kindness is not a currency.
That friendship is not
a fucking accounting exercise.
But how many times can you
empty your pockets before wondering
why everyone else’s hands closed?
You know you can always reach out.
Is something often said,
without follow-through.
But I do.
That’s the embarrassing part.
I actually fucking do.
I reach out
with my stupid, hopeful hands,
with some small part of myself
I have not yet managed
to beat into submission.
And I wait.
And I rationalize.
And I tell myself
not to take it personally.
Which is a fascinating instruction
when you are the person
it keeps happening to.
I wonder sometimes
what it would take for someone to
come looking for me.
Not because they needed something.
Just because I had gone quiet.
But silence is another thing
I am expected to manage myself.
So I build.
I figure it out.
I become the person
who doesn’t need to ask.
And people call it strength.
They call it resilience.
They admire the finished product
without ever considering
what the fuck it costs to manufacture.
