where asking feels like owing

I do not ask, though I may need— The price of asking feels too steep. Not gold, not coin, but quiet shame, A debt I carry, soul-deep. Hands once offered, warm and kind, Later pulled away, resigned. Their eyes said more than voices could— “You trouble more than you should.” So I stay still. Even when I break. Better the silence Than hearts that fake. To me, a plea is simple, bare— A reaching out in thinning air. To some, it’s weight, a dragging chain, A whisper wrapped in selfish strain. Sincere hearts—yes, they walk this land. But not all hands are clean when they extend a hand. Not all gifts come free from thread, Some stitched with guilt, some lined with dread. I do not blame. I understand— Not all are cruel, not all are grand. But I have learned to ask with care, For not all warmth intends to share. Still, in my quiet, silent part, I guard a wish inside my heart: That I might be—through storm or trial— A soul who gives and stays awhile. Not to be praised, not to be seen, But to remain both kind and clean. To give, and never leave one guessing— To help, and let that be the blessing.