Left with the Ashes

In the way people learn to ride a bike or write their name,

I learned sacrifice.

Not all at once and not bravely but from a series of careful repetition until it felt like a skill.

I learned it in the sleep I never took so he could rest. It is the food I never ate so he could feel full. In the truth I folded carefully away so peace could stay a little longer. In the love I gave without asking whether it would return.

He may call it kindness or patience but he will never call it mine. Sacrifice is a fire you're told to tend to quietly, with your hands outstretched and your heart set on fire. It warmed him but left you out in the cold.

When it burns low, there is no gratitude, only the expectation for you to remain ablaze. You are all that is left, ash still waiting your palms, wondering when endurance became obedience and how long you mistook survival for love.