Poem

                   The People-Pleaser in Me

I sit on my bed,

staring at the dark city—

windows glowing,

streets breathing light.

A sigh escapes me.

The same thought returns,

the one that always brings tears,

flooding my mind with questions:

Why can’t they treat me

the way I treat them?

My blind friend—

a name I won’t say.

I called her once and said,

I’m homeless.

Can I stay with you for a few days?

She said she was busy.

I stared at my phone,

tears streaming down my face.

A stranger picked me from the street

and gave me a place to stay.

A month later,

my blind friend called.

I’m sick.

I knew what that meant.

I went to her,

cared for her,

visited until she was well.

Another month passed.

She called again.

I need to go shopping.

I knew what that meant.

I took her to the mall.

The next day,

I was the one who called.

I need a place to stay.

Can I stay with you?

She replied,

No. I don’t feel comfortable with strangers.

Was I a stranger to her?

I didn’t argue.

I let it rest.

Days later, she called again.

I need new shoes.

I knew what that meant.

This time, I said no.

I wish I hadn’t read her reply.

It’s not a must.

I have other friends.

Please share your thoughts..

Please give it a try