Too Kind

“You’re kind to everyone but yourself.

Too kind.”

.

The words echo—

a loop that hums beneath my ribs,

a quiet accusation

I can’t quite refute.

.

Can you ever be too kind?

If this world is short on anything,

it’s kindness—

but what a burden

for one person to carry

the weight for those who don’t care.

.

Heavy is the heart

that worries for everyone

but herself.

.

It’s not a great day

to get hit on

by the drunk in the laundromat lot—

the same one where I’ve hauled

my wet clothes

for a year

since the dryer broke.

.

Don’t ask why I haven’t replaced it.

That’s another poem.

.

My tear-stained face

and bloodshot eyes

say more than I want them to.

Storytelling without even trying—

if only my books sold that easily.

.

My lips, though—

people pay good money

for a pout this puffy.

Never been a pretty cryer,but it does wonders for the mouth.

.

You’d think the guy would see

I’m not in the mood,

but he keeps on talking.

.

Sorry.

I digress.

I keep losing my place—

world imploding, focus dissolving.

.

Kindness may be free,

but it costs something

when no one gives it back.

.

The laundry’s in the dryer now.

I make it past

without him noticing,

and sit in my car.

Waiting.

Thinking.

.

Wishing I could just walk back out

and sit beside the drunk on the curb.

I bet we’re not so different.

.

I bet he’s wiped his tears

with hands still dirty from survival,

wondering where the next fix—

or bill—

will come from.

.

Maybe kindness isn’t a halo,

but a bruise

you learn to hide.