I was saving you so you wouldn t see me

I was saving you so you wouldn’t see me.

I knew who to call when trouble knocked,
Who to give my evening, sleep, and silence to.
And if someone’s life started to crack in the morning,
I was the first to go there, as if to war.

I carried others’ fears, deadlines, and failures,
I knew how to find an answer when others couldn’t.
They told me: We’d be lost without you.
And I kept quiet about the fact that I’d disappeared long ago.

It scared me to hear: “I’ll manage, don’t worry.”
So what do I do with my long vigil then?
I helped even more — more persistently than I was asked,
And I got angry if someone turned down my help.

I called my sleepless work “care,”
But I waited for a glance and warmth for every deed.
It seemed to me: I’d stop being needed by someone —
And it would become clear that I’m nothing but ashes.

I rushed to make a decision before anyone asked or said a word,
I was afraid to just be silent next to the pain.
I lifted someone else’s burden again and again —
Leaving my own where there was no one to lift it.

And if someone made a mistake, I was tormented:
“Where did I fail to see? What didn’t I understand in time?”
It was as if I had signed a contract before God on behalf of all people,
As if I had been given the task of changing their lives.

I didn’t know how to say the simple word “enough.”
It rose up in my chest — I crushed it.
I imagined: they would just deny me the right to intimacy if I didn’t do everything.

But then one day I didn’t even have the strength to get up.
The phone was ringing. I saw the name and stayed silent.
I felt ashamed not to answer, not to save.
And someone wrote: “How are you?” — and I started to cry.

I said, “I need help.”
The words came to me harder than a thousand other people’s troubles.
In the end, I didn’t have to pay for them with my own life.
They just brought me some water and a warm blanket.

Now I’m there if they need me. I can
To lend a shoulder, to give advice, and to rest.
But if you’re capable — I won’t run
To push you forward, to push you along your path.

I’m still worried when I hear someone say “it hurts.”
Sometimes I’m ready to forget my own affairs again.
Then I ask: “How can I help?” — and I wait for an answer.
And I remember how I once didn’t give it.