“Love Shouldn’t Hurt to Give”
by The Prince of Darkness
Dedication — For the Ones Who Are Always There
For the ones everyone calls when they need a ride, a loan, a favor, a place to fall—but never a simple “How are you really?”
For the ones who are the strong one, the fixer, the rock, until the rock starts to crack and nobody notices.
For the ones who don’t want to die, but honestly don’t care if they wake up tomorrow.
For the ones whose families take the whole feast and leave them licking crumbs off the plate—then still ask what’s for dessert.
This is for you, the heart treated like a utility, the soul that deserves more than the bare minimum and an occasional “love you” said out of habit.
Prologue — The Reliable One
It starts small.
You’re the one they call when the car won’t start, when the bill’s past due, when someone needs bailed out from another bad decision. Your phone lights up like an alarm system, but only when there’s trouble on their side of the fence.
They say you’re “so strong,” “so dependable,” “a good person.” They say “I love you” like a password that unlocks your help. Then, once they’ve taken what they came for, they go quiet again.
No one asks how heavy it is to carry everyone else. No one notices you haven’t laughed in weeks, that your smile looks rented. You’re not a person to them; you’re a power outlet. Plug in, charge, unplug, leave.
You lie in bed at night, not planning to die, but also not caring much either way. If tomorrow vanished, part of you thinks, At least I could finally rest. Not because you hate life—but because you’re the only one who’s never allowed to put it down.
You hear “I love you,” but it feels like a bill, not a blessing.
Nursery Rhyme — The Never-Empty Cup
Fill me up, then walk away,
come back when you’ve burned the day.
Sip my strength and drain my light,
leave me lonely every night.
Say you love me, take your share,
leave me gasping, stripped and bare.
Little cup that never fills,
overflowing others’ bills.
When I crack and start to break,
no one asks what I can take.
Yet you’ll knock when storms are rough—
empty well is still “enough.”
Kids roll eyes when tears appear,
“Mom, it’s not about your fear.”
Partner sighs, “You’re too much now,”
but calls you when their world goes down.
Poem — I Don’t Want to Die, I Just Don’t Care
There’s a special kind of tired that doesn’t sleep.
It just lies there, staring at the ceiling,
listening to the same three thoughts circle the drain.
You don’t write a note.
You don’t picture the funeral.
You just feel… done.
Not dramatic, not screaming—just finished on the inside.
People say they love you with their mouths
while their actions write a different story.
You’re the emergency contact,
the late-night call,
the ride home,
the loan,
the babysitter of everyone’s chaos.
You watch them take and take,
their I love you coming right before the ask,
like a commercial jingle before a bill.
Your teenage kids—they’re the sharpest cut.
You try to talk, to say “I’m hurting,”
and they roll their eyes, sigh heavy,
“Mom/Dad, it’s always about you,”
like your pain is the inconvenience,
your exhaustion the real problem.
But the second they’re mad about a breakup,
a friend fight, a bad grade,
bam—you’re supposed to drop everything,
listen for hours, fix it all,
be their therapist, their driver, their savior.
They demand what they won’t give,
and you wonder when “parent” became “servant.”
Then your partner—the one who’s supposed to be your safe place.
They show up for everyone:
friends’ crises, family drama, coworker bullshit.
They’ll drive across town at midnight for a buddy’s tire,
post about “supporting my people” on social media.
But when you need them?
You’re “too emotional,” “being dramatic,” “a burden right now.”
They sigh like your vulnerability is an extra chore.
Yet when they’re stressed, upset, overwhelmed?
You’re expected to show up—
same energy, same speed, same emotional labor.
They take your full tank and give you fumes.
You start to move through days like a ghost
still doing dishes, still going to work,
still picking up the phone on the first ring.
You laugh in the right places,
say “no worries” when you’re drowning,
offer help you can’t afford to give.
Nobody notices your eyes look like a power outage.
You don’t want to die.
You just don’t care if you live like this anymore.
It’s not life you’re tired of—
it’s the role you were assigned without consent:
the giver, the fixer,
the one who always has to be “okay”
so everyone else can fall apart on schedule.
Family says they love you,
but love that only shows up with open hands
and never open arms
is just need wearing a cheap costume.
You get the bare minimum—
a text on holidays,
a tired “you know I appreciate you”
when you’re already halfway out the door.
But let you miss one call, one favor,
and they act like you’ve betrayed a sacred oath.
Some nights, you catch yourself wondering
what it would feel like if someone showed up
without wanting anything.
No favor, no ride, no money, no fix.
Just to sit with you in your mess
and say,
“I see how much you carry,
and I’m here to carry some of it with you.”
You imagine a life where “I love you”
doesn’t mean
“Prove it again.”
Where your worth is not measured in
how quickly you answer,
how much you sacrifice,
how silent you stay about your own hurt.
Deep down, a small part of you
still believes life could be good—
if you weren’t everyone’s battery pack.
If you could choose yourself
without being accused of betrayal.
If you could step back and say,
“I’m empty,”
and have someone say,
“Then rest. I’ve got you.”
You don’t want to die.
You want to live a life
where you’re not consumed.
Where love pours into you
as much as it pours out.
Where “I love you” feels like shelter,
not a summons.
Epilogue — When the Well Says No
One day, the well decides it will not be bottomless.
The phone still rings,
but you let it go to voicemail.
You read the messages—
the guilt from your kids (“You never listen to me!”),
the irritation from your partner (“I’m dealing with my own stuff”),
the familiar scripts from family—
and you set the device face-down on the table.
You realize something terrifying and holy:
you are allowed to stop.
Allowed to disappoint people
who only loved you when you were convenient.
Allowed to choose your own heartbeat
over their emergencies.
The first “no” to your teenager feels like treason.
They stare, shocked—
“You’re supposed to be there for me!”
But you look them in the eye and say,
“I’ve been there. Now be there for me.”
Your partner huffs, “This isn’t a good time.”
You nod.
“Then find a good time, or find someone else to lean on.”
The first “no” feels like a crime.
The second one feels like breathing.
The third one feels like a small miracle.
Some will be furious.
They always were—
they just hid it behind “love”
when you cooperated.
Let them talk.
Let them leave.
Draining is all they ever knew how to do.
Others, a rare few,
will hear the shake in your voice
and finally ask,
“What about you? What do you need?”
Those are the ones you keep.
Those are the ones who prove
that love can still be a place to rest,
not a place to bleed.
You didn’t give up on life.
You gave up on being used.
There’s a difference.
And in that difference,
you might finally start to feel something like
hope.
Lullaby — For the Ones Who Are Done Being Used
Lay it down, put down the load,
you don’t owe them one more road.
Close your eyes, release the call,
you were never meant for all.
Let their chaos find its way—
you are not their bill to pay.
Rest, dear heart, you’ve given most;
you deserve more than a ghost.
If they love you, they will prove
they can meet you when you move.
If they don’t, then let them roam—
you are not their only home.
Kids will learn, or kids will go;
partners change, or partners know.
Sleep now—you’ve earned your peace.
The well deserves its own release.
© 2026 The Prince of Darkness. All rights reserved.
“Some people don’t want you dead—they just don’t care if you live, as long as you’re useful. Choose living anyway.”