I am a pushover.
I let people call themselves my friends.
Give clowns and vagabonds permission to insult me,
stomp on my pride and other obnoxious things.
Then I sleep with them,
feed them meals I can’t afford,
call them when I’m lonely,
lend them money I don’t have
and tuck them in at night.
If only I had a backbone,
that elusive thing called courage.
I’d be honest and brash,
lock my heart’s door
and say there’s nobody home.
Instead, I let these bullies linger,
ravaging my soul
and taking everything I own.