Selflessness Or Self‑sabotage

I’ve spent years offering pieces of myself  
like spare change —  
small, constant, uncounted.  
People called it kindness,  
but they never saw the ledger,  
never noticed how often I walked home  
with my pockets turned inside out.  

There’s a violence in over‑giving  
that no one warns you about.  
A slow erosion.  
A quiet hollowing.  
A soft, obedient death  
performed in the name of being “good.”  

I kept mistaking depletion for devotion,  
thinking if I poured enough of myself  
into the cracks of others,  
someone would eventually notice  
I was crumbling too.  
But people rarely question  
a well that never stops offering water —  
they just drink until the bottom shows.  

Now I’m learning the anatomy of boundaries,  
how to hold my own name  
without apologizing for its weight,  
how to say “no”  
without swallowing the word afterward.  

Maybe the real question was never  
selflessness or self‑sabotage —  
maybe it was this:  
why did I believe I had to disappear  
to be loved.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤 

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