Helping a friend, knowing you will regret it, knowing it hurts you. Knowing you want them happy, and do so to try and help. It kills you inside. Kills you when you help them, not for helping them, but it’s unexplainable. When helping kills the helper, and you become your own willing executioner.
Ripping apart the heart,
The peaceful, yet not.
The pain, yet ambivalence.
The soul-ripping, flesh-searing, mind-draining pain.
All can come from a helping hand offered to the wrong person.
Why do you do this to me?
Share your problems, knowing I’m YOUR VICTIM.
You feel strung along, yet you do me the same way. Share your problems as if I never have known them. I know them, you’ve shown me them. You wrap the noose around the neck, my neck.
I know of them. Know them from, because, of you.
Yet. I do this willingly.
I am the guilty.
I am the judge.
I am the jury.
I am the executioner.
The one who goes willing into the fate, the fate which we call life.