A poem for Xmas Eve 2024: How much she needed

It shocks me still, how much she needed.

How little she had. How highly I valued her. She was small and precious to me.  

I alone shared or stayed.

Others saw what I could not? Did they surmise  negative return on investment? 

She disliked addition with others and would not multiply. She envied those who would.

Few others tarried longer too. They witnessed their own worthlessness so they never aided.

Those who rose from her ranks never invited her along. At work and play, always a plateau of her own design, and unresolved silences. 

Those who caught bright flashing red attended once and never returned, fearing their own paths would be invisible after a second crossing.

Those holding spaces for sacred journeys soon closed them and changed phone numbers. More than once they died soon after.

Her readers. Her parents.  Her lovers.  No gifts. Not even thanks or praise. 

Did they know after one gratuity that the money had been pocketed?  Why didn’t I see this?

Mentors arrived and disappointed at the rate dropped ice cream melts on tarmac. 

Men could not coach and women feared to. All genders mutely watched the same mistakes recur as the metronome ticked.

There is no “team” in “narcissist.” There is  “crisis.”

Her hairdresser wouldn’t touch her in the end, knowing faith would alchemize to fault when she declared war. 

Always her own Sampson.  She needed nor loved no Delialah.