Sometimes it is

misplaced pride

and ego

that causes us

to reject

a helping hand

when it is

offered.

Sometimes it is fear

that keeps us

hiding

in the shadows

hoping

that no one notices

we are foolish enough

to need it.

Help can come

in a quiet way

and we never know

from whence it came.

Other times

it appears with great

fanfare

and pomposity

in a manner that leaves

us shamed

and instead of

gratitude

our hearts grow cold

with our refusal.

I can tell you,

there are those times

we know

in the pit of our gut,

burned indelibly

into our minds,

that we cannot afford

to let the slate

be wiped clean.

We know

that we must balance

the scales inside

for ourselves

or be doomed to

repeat

the hated lesson.

It may be

that we finally

recognize

a behavior in

ourselves,

a chronic repetition

of over-giving,

a re-creation of events

that leave us

hollow.

Perhaps it took us

so long to see

that our efforts

were merely enabling,

leaving both

the giver

and the other

weaker

than before.

It is in those moments

of awareness

that we must stand

alone,

feel the consequences

of our actions,

put the sweat and tears

to work

in a better way,

find a more

loving act of

giving

that fills both hearts

with no depletion

to either.

Only then can we grow

stronger from

the injury,

absorbing the teaching

of our experiences

as we were meant

to do.

And when we finally

fight our way

through

the hell we set aflame

with our own

matches,

we honor those

who loved us

enough

to let us mend

our own bones,

gather our shredded

self-esteem,

and heal ourselves

whole again.