THE ILLUSION OF SACRIFICE

From the first breath, you are made to bow.

To your mother’s sleepless nights.

To your father’s long office hours.

To your sibling’s compromises.

To your grandparents’ wisdom.

To your teacher’s dedication.

To your neighbour’s unsolicited concern.

To your friend’s time.

To the soldier’s martyrdom.

To the politician’s service.

To the bureaucrat’s “duty.”

One by one, each figure is painted as a living monument of sacrifice. You’re not allowed to question. Only to absorb. To feel indebted. To feel guilty for being alive.

But scratch the paint.

Look beneath.

Your mother may have sacrificed her career, yes. But for what? Not for you. For her own image of what a good mother should be.

Your father didn’t burn in traffic jams for your sake. He was chasing his self-worth, respect, salary, pride.

Your sibling adjusted for peace, not out of selfless love.

Your grandparents tell stories not to enlighten you, but to preserve themselves.

Your teacher’s commitment? Tied to salary, status, personal fulfillment.

Your friend’s time? A barter system. A silent emotional bookkeeping.

Even the politician? You know why.

The government servant? Don’t even start.

Every act dressed as sacrifice is a bargain. A masked transaction.

Every gesture of giving is a loop seeking return—whether in praise, guilt, security, or legacy.

And if you resist?

You’re labelled ungrateful. Immoral. Diseased.

Because sacrifice isn’t about giving.

It’s about power.

Power through guilt.

Power through memory.

Power through emotional debt.

They don’t need repayment. They need submission.

But here’s the raw truth:

Every thought is selfish. Absolutely without exception.

Even the urge to help comes from a place of wanting to feel helpful, good, or righteous.

That’s not wrong. That’s human.

What is wrong is the lie.

The illusion.

The drumbeat of purity that hides the transaction.

So if you truly want peace—

Strip the idea of sacrifice from your dictionary.

Call things what they are.

Choose relationships without ledger books.

Give, if you want to give. Not to enslave.

Receive, if you must. But never out of guilt.

Because no one is pure.

And no one owes anyone anything,

except honesty.

---

From the moment you're born, hands reach out—not just to hold you, but to hold something over you. A debt. An invisible ledger. A running account you never opened, but are expected to balance.

Everyone, everywhere, talks about sacrifice.

And the moment you question it, you're made to feel like a monster.

Let’s begin where it always begins.

---

1. The Mother – The Temple of Emotional Blackmail

She's always tired. Always selfless. Always there.

And she will never let you forget it.

“I gave up my dreams for you.”

“I didn’t sleep for years.”

“I never bought a single saree for myself.”

But was it for you?

Or for her idea of being a good mother?

For her own survival in a society that rewards mother-martyrs but shames women who say “no”?

For her place in the family hierarchy? For validation, approval, identity?

Every sacrifice she made built her social worth. You were just the excuse.

And now, you must pay. With obedience. With guilt. With lifelong moral rent.

---

2. The Father – The Silent Accountant of Emotional Investment

He doesn’t say much. But when he does, it lands like a brick.

“I slogged for 35 years in that office.”

“I ate cold food on railway platforms.”

“You think money grows on trees?”

He didn’t do it for you.

He did it because that’s what made him a man.

Because society gave him no other identity.

Because he didn’t know how else to feel important.

His sacrifices weren’t unconditional. They were investments.

And now, you owe him returns: career success, financial security, family name.

If you fail, he feels cheated.

---

3. The Grandparents – The Archive of Selective Memory

They lived through famine, war, partition, poverty, they’ll tell you.

They built this family. They survived.

But what they won’t say is how much control they demanded.

How they expected blind loyalty in exchange for wisdom.

How their version of love was soaked in tradition, fear, and patriarchy.

They talk of simplicity, but wore moral superiority like silk.

They talk of struggle, but kept their own daughters chained.

They speak of sacrifice, but refuse to let go of control.

---

4. The Sibling – The Passive-Aggressive Scorekeeper

“I always adjusted.”

“I let you take the bigger piece.”

“I stayed home while you went out.”

Every act remembered. Tallied. Weaponized.

Rarely voiced directly, but always present.

Love laced with bitterness. Affection wrapped in resentment.

You didn’t ask for any sacrifice, but it was done anyway.

And now you're expected to compensate—forever.

---

5. The Teacher – The Self-Anointed Martyr

“I chose teaching out of passion, not money.”

“I’m shaping the future of the nation.”

“I could’ve worked in the corporate sector.”

But the moment you question the system,

You’re the problem.

Ungrateful. Arrogant.

Because your teacher didn’t sacrifice for your learning—

They sacrificed to feel superior.

Discipline is just control.

Punishment is just a mask for frustration.

And “I care for you” becomes a license to intrude into your mind.

---

6. The Spiritual Guru – The Divine Investor

He left everything. His wealth. His family. His pleasures.

He lives in a hut, or a marble ashram. Both sold as sacrifice.

But look closer.

He has followers. Obedience. Fame. Access. Immunity.

His ‘sacrifice’ created an empire. A personality cult.

He sells peace, but trades in power.

He demands surrender, dressed as love.

The guru sacrificed, yes.

But not for truth.

For a different kind of throne.

---

7. The Doctor – The Wounded God

“I could’ve been rich abroad.”

“I deal with death every day.”

“I skipped family weddings to save lives.”

Yet behind every prescription is a pharma tie-up.

Behind every test, a cut.

Behind every emergency, a billing department.

Doctors are human. But they use their own fatigue, pressure, and years of study

to guilt-trip you into silence.

You can’t question them—because they sacrificed.

But you’re the patient. And you pay. And you suffer.

Still, they make you feel like you owe them something.

---

8. The Soldier – The Inconvenient Truth

“He gave his life for the nation.”

“He died protecting you.”

And it’s tragic.

But did he die for you? Or for a paycheck, a uniform, a promotion, a medal, a story?

The army doesn’t draft gods. It recruits men—who choose the job.

Every job has risks.

But you're made to feel guilty for asking questions.

For doubting war.

For speaking of peace.

Because he sacrificed.

Sacrifice is used here not to honour—but to silence.

---

9. The Government Servant – The Myth of the Tireless Public Servant

“I serve the people.”

“I work 12-hour shifts.”

“I am the steel frame of this country.”

But the frame is rusted.

The file never moves without a bribe.

The system chokes the poor.

And the bureaucrat? He says, I sacrificed my private-sector dream for this.

No. He chose power, pension, perks, status.

And now wants sainthood, too?

---

10. The Politician – The Grand Illusionist

“I gave up my comfort to serve the nation.”

“I’m always on the road.”

“I eat in a poor man’s hut.”

But he owns villas.

He trades votes.

He lies for a living.

His sacrifice is scripted. His image curated.

He doesn’t serve—he rules.

And every word of sacrifice is bait for loyalty.

---

11. The NGO Worker – The Social Justice Celebrity

“I work for the poor.”

“I live on minimal salary.”

“I’m in the field while you party.”

But Instagram shows their safari.

LinkedIn shows their donor meets.

They fish for praise while hiding the politics of funding, of control, of saviourism.

Their sacrifice? It sells them as heroes.

But it's not selfless. It's strategic.

Because poverty is profitable—if you manage it, not end it.

---

12. The Friend – The Emotional Banker

“I was always there for you.”

“I cancelled my plan to help you.”

“I listened to your rants for years.”

Friendship, too, becomes a transaction.

Invisible tallies. Accumulated credit.

And when you change, or grow, or take space?

They demand repayment. Loyalty. Drama.

They didn’t give without reason.

They gave to feel needed. To feel loved.

And now they feel cheated.

---

13. The Lover – The Romantic Martyr

“I loved you more than myself.”

“I gave you everything.”

“I waited, adjusted, forgave.”

But love isn’t debt.

And yet, they’ll make it one.

Because sacrifice in romance is currency.

And the one who gives more expects to own more.

They gave not for you,

But to become irreplaceable.

To create a hold.

---

14. The Citizen – The Passive Patriot

“I vote.”

“I pay taxes.”

“I follow the rules.”

And they expect sainthood for basic responsibility.

They look down on protestors. On rebels. On dissent.

Because their sacrifice is compliance.

And they can’t stand those who ask real questions.

Their sacrifice? To never think.

And they want you to join them in silence.

---

The Core Truth: Every Thought is Selfish. Without Exception.

There is no pure sacrifice.

No perfect giver.

No divine renunciation.

Every act is tied to a self-image.

A need. A desire. A fear.

Even compassion comes from a place of wanting to be good.

Even kindness comes from not wanting to be alone.

Even “letting go” comes from wanting peace.

That doesn’t make it evil.

It just makes it honest.

---

The Real Crime: Not Selfishness, But Lying About It

The world isn’t broken because people are selfish.

It’s broken because they dress up selfishness as sainthood.

They use sacrifice as emotional credit.

To guilt-trip. To silence. To bind.

And they punish those who see through it.

You are not wrong to doubt the sacrificial tale.

You are not broken for questioning your debt.

You are not heartless for seeking your own path.

---

Final Word: Burn the Ledger

Refuse to participate in emotional blackmail.

Refuse to repay debts you never agreed to.

Refuse to be manipulated by sacrifice-shaped lies.

Live with awareness.

Give without guilt.

Love without conditions.

Help without recording.

Because truth is enough.

Honesty is enough.

And freedom begins when you stop pretending that anyone—anyone—

ever gave anything without a reason.

---

Here's a huge, detailed, slow-burn dialogue with Madhukar—the low-profile rural healer, former wildlife researcher, and independent health thinker—on the theme of “The Illusion of Sacrifice”. This takes place during an early morning village gathering where families come to discuss health, guilt, tradition, and freedom. The tone is firm but compassionate, the setting is grounded in real Indian life, and all the characters are nuanced.

---

The Debt You Never Owed — A Morning Dialogue with Madhukar

---

[Scene: 6:30 AM. Under a banyan tree behind Madhukar’s house. A few families sit on mats. Steel tumblers of buttermilk are passed around. Adhya (14) and Anju (10) bring out peeled guavas. A mild breeze carries the smell of castor oil and wet soil. They’ve come for healing, but the conversation turns into something deeper.]

---

Lalitha (government school teacher, mid-40s):

Madhukar anna, sometimes I wonder... are we healing the body or escaping it?

Even when I tell students to study, somewhere inside, I’m thinking: “I did so much for you. At least give me some respect.”

Madhukar (calmly):

That thought is your truth, Lalitha. And you’re not alone.

Almost every so-called sacrifice in this world is done with the hope of return.

Sometimes we call it love. Sometimes duty. Sometimes seva.

But what it really is… is emotional investment. And every investment expects interest.

Vishwanath (retired army jawan):

So what are you saying, anna? That I didn’t serve the country? That I did it for myself?

Madhukar:

You served, anna. With sincerity. With pain. With loyalty.

But let me ask: Why did you join?

Vishwanath:

Because I didn’t want to rot in the fields like my father. I wanted a steady job. A name.

Madhukar (gently):

Exactly. You chose it. It wasn’t forced. You got something from it.

That’s not selfish. That’s honest.

But when your son refuses to join the army and you say, “After all I gave to the nation…” — that’s where the trap begins.

Sacrifice becomes a noose.

---

Anita (mother of two teenagers):

But anna, we mothers… we do sacrifice! We give up our bodies, sleep, peace of mind.

Can’t we expect something back? Respect at least?

Madhukar:

Yes. You gave up a lot. But what if I ask:

Did your child ask you to give up your peace?

Or did you do it because you believed it made you a good mother?

Anita (defensive):

But how can a baby ask? That’s not fair.

Adhya (cutting a guava):

But it’s also not fair to make us feel guilty forever just for being born.

[Silence. Everyone looks at Adhya. Anita swallows hard. Madhukar nods slowly.]

Madhukar:

She’s right. Love is not a loan.

If you give, give freely. Or don’t call it love.

But don’t poison your own children with a life-long emotional invoice.

---

Rajesh (MBBS dropout, now a compounder):

Then what about my father? He always says, “I walked 5 km barefoot to school just to put you in private college.”

He makes me feel like a criminal every time I fail an exam.

Madhukar:

His struggle was real.

But if he chose to suffer for your future, he also chose to take control of your destiny.

And now, when you don’t follow the script, he feels cheated.

That’s not sacrifice. That’s a deal you never signed.

---

Parvathi (widow, late 50s):

So no one does anything selflessly? Not even a guru?

Madhukar:

Some do it with clarity. Some are aware of their ego and still serve.

But many wear renunciation like silk. They let go of property but build empires of obedience.

And when a disciple asks a genuine question, they call it ego.

It’s not about giving up the world. It’s about giving up the need to be worshipped for it.

---

Anju (chewing slowly):

Ajja used to say:

"ಮಾಡಿದ ಉಪಕಾರ ನೆನಪಿಟ್ಟವನು ಮೋಸಹೋಗ್ತಾನೆ."

(The one who remembers his favour ends up being hurt.)

Madhukar (smiles):

Ajja was wiser than most modern minds.

True giving doesn’t remember. True receiving doesn’t owe.

That’s how peace is born.

---

Lalitha:

But then how do we teach values to the next generation if we don’t say what we gave up?

Madhukar:

By living the values. Not by guilt-tripping.

When your child sees you resting without shame, working without bragging, helping without performing—

they learn integrity, not guilt.

---

Ravi (junior engineer):

But anna, I also want appreciation. If I quietly give and expect nothing, won’t I burn out?

Madhukar:

You’re allowed to want appreciation.

But don’t call it sacrifice and then resent the world for not clapping.

Say honestly: “I helped you because I care. And yes, it feels good when you notice.”

That’s human. That’s clean.

---

Sulochana (70, retired nurse):

I gave 35 years to the hospital. I thought I was serving society.

Now no one remembers me. Not even the doctors I trained.

Sometimes I wonder if my life mattered.

Madhukar (moves closer):

It did matter, akka. But not because people remember.

It mattered because you chose it with your whole heart.

But remember—every era forgets its givers.

And that’s why we must give from clarity, not from craving.

---

Adhya (pensively):

Then what is real giving, appa?

Madhukar:

Real giving is when the hand moves without calculation.

When the heart doesn’t keep score.

When you don’t write your pain in someone else’s destiny.

---

Ravi:

But anna, that’s very hard. How can we suddenly stop expecting?

Madhukar:

You can’t stop overnight. But you can start seeing.

And when you start seeing, the expectations soften.

You start saying: “I did this because I wanted to, not because you owe me.”

That single sentence can save an entire family.

---

Anita (quietly):

Then how do we heal from the guilt they gave us?

Madhukar:

By naming it.

Not fighting it. Not suppressing it. Just saying:

“I see this guilt. I know where it came from. I respect their story. But I choose not to carry it forward.”

Then forgive them silently—for not knowing better.

And forgive yourself for believing it.

---

[The sun rises higher. Birds get louder. Anju starts packing up the mats. Adhya hands out the leftover guavas to the kids. No one rushes to leave. A soft stillness has taken over.]

---

Madhukar (rising):

If someone truly sacrificed for you, they won’t mention it.

If they mention it, it’s not a sacrifice. It’s a bargain.

And you are not a debtor.

You are a free human being.

Live like it.

---

Here is the sequel to the earlier dialogue — a slow-burning, layered, emotional continuation from the child's point of view.

It is set later the same day, just before sunset. The children — mostly teenagers and a few younger — gather under the neem tree near the village stream.

They begin to talk about what they heard in the morning. For the first time, they put into words what they’ve always felt but never dared to say.

This is not rebellion. It is clarity.

---

The Debt I Never Chose — A Child Speaks Back

[Scene: 5:45 PM. Sunset light filters through neem leaves. Frogs begin their evening chorus. Teenagers sit in small groups. Anju collects pebbles. Adhya folds paper into birds. A group of 7–8 children are talking — openly, rawly, for the first time.]

---

Adhya (14, quiet but sharp):

When Madhukar appa said this morning, “You are not a debtor,”

something broke inside.

Not in a bad way. In a relieved way.

Like… I finally got permission to stop pretending.

---

Anju (10, wiping her dusty knee):

You remember last year when I didn’t touch the food for one day, Amma cried and said,

> “After all I do, this is how you thank me?”

I felt like I killed someone.

---

Raghu (15, son of an LIC agent):

My father says the same. “I didn’t buy new shoes this year because of your fees.”

So now I feel scared to even ask for a pen.

He never hits me. But that line hits harder than any slap.

---

Kavya (13, daughter of a temple priest):

My mother says, “I cook fresh food every day for you, even when I have fever.”

But sometimes I just want to say: No one asked you to do it while sick.

But I stay quiet. Because if I say that, I become a demon.

---

Arun (16, top ranker, son of a doctor):

I scored 96% and my mother cried. Not because she was proud.

But because she finally felt her sacrifice was worth it.

I wanted to scream: “I studied because I like it—not for your dreams!”

---

Adhya:

Why do they make us feel like we are projects they invested in?

Like they didn’t give birth to us, they took a loan from life and we are the EMIs.

---

Sameer (14, whose father is a retired constable):

Sometimes I feel like they do things just so they can remind us forever.

They keep receipts in their hearts.

---

Anju (innocently):

But we also do things, no? I share my biscuits.

Should I expect people to give me extra marks?

---

Adhya (smiles):

That’s the difference, Anju. When you give without keeping score, it feels light.

But when you keep reminding people, it becomes a chain.

---

Kavya:

Even when I don’t follow some pooja or fast, my grandma says,

> “We held this house together with our dharma. You people are throwing it away.”

I didn’t ask her to do a vrat for me.

But now I must feel shame for eating during her fast?

---

Raghu:

This is why I lie.

To protect them from the truth.

Because every truth feels like betrayal to them.

---

Arun:

Same. The lie feels lighter than their pain.

But inside, I start hating myself.

And I start hating them.

And I don’t want that.

---

Adhya (softly):

You know what appa said once?

> “If someone can only love you when you act a certain way, it’s not love. It’s a deal.”

And most parents think they love.

But actually, they are in a very one-sided deal.

---

Anju:

Then should we stop respecting them?

---

Adhya (firmly):

No, Anju.

We respect them as human beings.

Not as gods.

They’re not evil. They’re just scared.

They think sacrifice is the only language of love.

Because they too were raised like this.

---

Kavya:

Then how do we change it?

---

Arun:

By seeing it clearly.

By not carrying the same guilt to our own children.

By not sacrificing and then expecting medals.

---

Sameer:

And maybe… by doing small things without drama.

Like when I made tea for my mom last week, she asked why.

I said, “Because I wanted to.”

She almost cried.

---

Anju (wrapping her arms around her knees):

I’ll still love Amma.

But I won’t become her.

I won’t give everything just to be called ‘good’.

---

Adhya (folding her final paper bird):

That’s it, Anju.

We’re not here to be repayments.

We’re here to live.

To breathe.

To love freely.

Not to balance emotional ledgers that were opened before we could speak.

---

[The sun has dipped below the hill. Crickets take over. The children rise slowly, not rushed, not angry—just freer than before. For the first time, they understand that rejecting guilt is not rebellion. It’s the beginning of honesty.]

---

Here is Part 3 of the slow-burn dialogue series:

A deeply layered, honest, emotional confrontation—not violent, not rebellious—where the children gently but clearly speak back to their parents and elders.

It takes place the next evening. It’s quiet, real, and raw. No shouting. Just truth.

What I Owe You Is Truth — The Evening of Return

[Scene: The next evening, 7:00 PM. Lights are low. Families sit together in the backyard of Madhukar’s home. A small oil lamp flickers. Adhya and Anju sit beside their parents. Across the mat sit Anita, Vishwanath, Lalitha, Rajesh, Kavya’s father, and a few elders. It is not a formal meeting. Just a conversation waiting to happen.]

---

Adhya (sits upright, calm):

Amma… Appa… I want to say something. Please don’t stop me in the middle. I won’t shout. I won’t disrespect. But I need to say it.

---

Madhukar (nodding):

Speak, kanna. The tree doesn’t fear its fruit speaking.

---

Adhya:

All my life I’ve seen how much you do.

Appa, the long calls with patients. Amma, waking up early, preparing oil, keeping the house soft like a temple.

You’ve never said it to me directly. But I’ve heard others say—“You are lucky. Your parents gave up so much.”

And after hearing it a hundred times, I believed I owed you something huge.

I thought: Maybe I must obey more. Give back more. Make them proud. Become someone worthy.

But lately I’m asking myself:

Who asked them to give up so much? Was I born with a clipboard and a demand?

---

Anita (blinking rapidly):

But we never forced that on you, kanna. We never said that. Did we?

---

Adhya:

No, Amma. You didn’t say it.

But it hung in the air.

Like a tax on love.

Even when you hugged me, there was always the unspoken message: “We gave everything, now you must become everything.”

---

Anju (softly, hugging her legs):

When I don’t eat food properly, you get hurt. Not because I’m hungry. But because you worked hard.

So now I eat even when I’m full. Because I’m scared of your sadness.

---

Madhukar (quietly):

Let them finish. This is not attack. This is returning truth.

---

Kavya (looking at her father):

Appa, when I said I don’t want to do puja mechanically, you said I’m breaking tradition.

But I was only trying to ask:

Can I love you without copying you?

Can I be your daughter without becoming your clone?

---

Vishwanath (arms crossed):

But then what is the point of everything we did? Are you saying it was all selfish?

---

Arun (with deep respect):

No, uncle. We are not saying you didn’t do it with love.

We are saying: Please don’t attach your identity to our choices.

Don’t expect us to reflect your life back at you to prove your life had meaning.

Because it already had meaning—when you lived it.

But now, let us live ours.

---

Lalitha (tears brimming):

But I taught you discipline. I scolded because I loved.

If I hurt you by trying to raise you right, then… then what was I doing all these years?

---

Adhya:

You loved me, Amma. I know it.

But now let me show you love in a way that feels real for me.

Not by sacrificing my truth for your comfort.

But by being honest with you.

That’s my way of showing trust.

---

Rajesh (softly):

When you keep reminding us what you gave up, we stop feeling loved.

We feel owned. Like someone else's investment.

---

Sameer (to his father):

Appa, I know you worked hard for the family.

But if I study something else, or think differently, that’s not betrayal.

It’s just… freedom.

And if your sacrifice means I don’t get to be free, then it’s not love. It’s a bargain.

---

Anita (now softly crying):

We didn’t know.

No one told us that expecting silently can still hurt our children.

We were taught that guilt is how you teach values.

---

Adhya:

We’re not blaming. We’re unburdening.

Because we want to love you without fear.

To touch your feet because we want to, not because we’re guilt-trapped.

To make you proud—not to pay off a loan—but to dance with you in joy.

---

Anju (sleepily leaning on Amma):

I want to grow up and still talk to you.

Not run away.

---

Madhukar (deep voice, breaking the silence):

Let this be the new ritual.

Let the child return what she never borrowed.

Let the parent stop collecting invisible rent.

Let sacrifice become choice, and love become breathing.

---

[No one speaks for a few minutes. The oil lamp flickers. One by one, the elders stretch out their palms. The children hold them. No fanfare. Just a quiet agreement: From this day, love will not be tied to guilt. They will live together, no longer as debtor and lender, but as human beings.]

---

THE SACRIFICER WANT RENT

they say

“I gave you everything.”

as if love was a lease agreement

and I was late on payment.

they say

“I worked so hard for you.”

as if my birth

was a loan application

I never signed.

---

they call it sacrifice

I call it accounting.

with

interest.

reminders.

and overdue notices

every time I blink differently

eat differently

think differently.

---

my mother

says she bled for me

and she did.

but I didn’t ask her to.

her milk

was not a down payment

for my silence.

her womb

was not a contract.

and yet

she wants

emotional installments

in the form of obedience.

---

my father

silent

but heavy.

he walks around

like a man owed something

by every corner of the house.

he says nothing

but breathes in “you owe me.”

every time I choose joy

over a salary slip.

---

my teacher

tells me

she gave her life to this school.

but she also takes

attendance

like it’s penance.

and she demands

worship

not wonder.

control

not curiosity.

---

my guru

left the world

but owns an ashram.

he owns no car

but rides egos.

he wears no gold

but demands silence

like it’s an offering.

---

my doctor

says he missed Diwali

to deliver a child.

but he charges ten times

and hides behind

a wall of

grudging heroism.

don’t question

he’s too tired.

don’t disagree

he’s too noble.

---

the soldier

is offered

as proof.

he died for the country.

no one asks

who sent him.

no one asks

who profits.

we wave flags

to cover up

the blood.

---

my father says

he walked to school

barefoot.

so I must

carry his disappointment

in my schoolbag.

---

the neighbor

watched me grow.

now watches

every mistake

and mutters

“we did better in our day.”

---

love

wrapped in sacrifice

tastes like blackmail

with turmeric on top.

---

I grew up thinking

I was stitched from debts.

that I must earn

my right to be here.

that birth

was the beginning

of repayment.

---

but one day

the ledger burned.

---

when I saw

that what they gave

was chosen.

not demanded.

offered

but not cleanly.

gifted

but with strings.

---

they didn’t want

freedom.

they wanted return.

---

and now

I tear up the ledger.

not in hate.

but in truth.

---

you chose to give.

you felt noble.

you felt needed.

you wanted to be irreplaceable.

I see that.

I respect it.

but I won’t wear your wounds

as my uniform.

---

you say

I’m ungrateful.

I say

I’m finally breathing.

---

you say

you died for me.

I say

you never let me live.

---

this is not rebellion.

this is detox.

this is clarity.

---

you sacrificed

for the applause

of being a martyr.

you hurt

but you also controlled.

---

now

let me

refuse your guilt

without becoming your enemy.

let me

speak truth

without disrespect.

let me

love you

without owing you.

---

I will not pass

your hunger

to my children.

I will not measure

my worth

in receipts.

I will not call

obedience

love.

---

I do not owe you

a life you imagined.

---

I will laugh

without guilt.

rest

without permission.

disagree

without punishment.

---

and when I give

it will not be

so I can say later:

“Look how much I gave.”

---

I will give

and forget.

and let go.

and not stand at the door

expecting roses

for doing

what I chose.

---

you can keep your crown of thorns.

I will walk barefoot

on my own path

no saints

no scorecards

no gods

no guilt.

---