Kind to Others But to Me?

By Iram

was always kind to others,

offering my warmth like sunlight to their shadows.

I cried for them,

my blue-grey tears watering the roots of their happiness,

while my own garden wilted in silence.

I helped them mend their broken pieces,

piecing together puzzles of love and belonging,

yet my own edges remain frayed,

my heart left unopened, unanswered.

I questioned myself—

Where do I stand in this endless give-and-take?

A quiet spectator in the theater of connection,

clapping for others' joy,

but hearing only echoes

When it was my turn

When I call out my own pain.

Still alone, I wonder why.

Is kindness a gift meant to be unseen?

Or have I forgotten

that even the giver needs to receive,

So do I?

that even the healer needs healing?

So do I?

I was kind to others,

but never to me.

And in the emptiness, I realize—

it’s time to hold my own heart,

to give myself the grace

I so freely gave to the world.

Now, I’ll love myself.

Unconditionally whole.

By Iram