You say you're my friend, but you don't call.
You say you're my friend, but I am alone when I fall.
You talk, and you share, but you never inquire.
With them, you stay out late, but with me, you retire.
I'd walk away now, but then you give just a little.
It's hardly much, nothing committal.
I give you the bulk of my friendship heart.
But carelessly, you shred it apart.
I like you, but this hurts, so I don't need you,
From the hurt, I decide we are through,
but then you send just a little my way.
It's never much, just enough to bait me to stay.
Why in our friendship must there be games?
The inconsistency feels like daggers and flames.
I am straightforward. You'll get what you see.
But the next time we meet, I never know who you'll be.
Will you smile when I walk into the room?
Or turn away quickly, feeling me with doom.
Sometimes, you welcome me into your personal bubble.
Other times to stand by you seems like so much trouble.
It's too much work to be your friend.
I think it's time to let it end.
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It's Too Much Work to be Your Friend
by Stephanie Daich
