No R.O.I. Friend

Disillusionment didn’t come overnight,

but crept in, like a chisel shaping stone.  

It was quiet, like you—  

who never ask about my life,  

who respond with half-formed words to my news—  

if you don’t leave my messages unread.  

Yet each time you reach out, I’m ready,  

as if I live in the pocket of your world,  

waiting to play the concerned villager  

in your “boy-who-cried-wolf” drama.

That's my own fault. I believed you—

that perhaps the sky was falling

each time you seemed to need me.

I hoped for a friendship that was mutual,  

but found myself on call—  

therapist, mentor, aunt, confidant, teacher—  

maybe a friend to you,  

but never one in return.  

Even a farm dog gets more  

than a pat once a month.  

Strangers feign interest.  

Enemies want updates.

I’m not usually like this—  

I give freely, without expectation.  

But the lack of gratitude,  

the sense that I care more than you do,  

the feeling that my time is wasted—  

years poured into a one-sided relationship—  

I give more, get less.  

Where’s the return on investment?

Is my time and energy just sunk cost?

Would you notice if I was the one

to leave you unanswered, unread?

So I cut the leash.  

I won’t be dragged around,  

won’t be weighed down anymore.  

Unlike you, I won’t say a word,  

won’t speak this hurtful truth,

won’t consult a single soul,  

won’t dwell on it.  

Instead,

I’ll fade away, a statue in the rain,  

weathered and worn,  

until I’m nothing more than  

a blurred face you can’t make out,  

so distant,  

you won’t even try

anymore.