It is not noble
to save someone
when their self-destruction
is determined
and habitual.
You pull them back
from the dangling edge
just to watch them
hurl their hopes over
again.
You scour the midnight streets
for their tattered shape,
bathe, clothe, and feed them
just to wake to an empty bed
again.
It’s not easy to kick the habit.
You anguish and rail alone.
You plead and cry
to kind friends
and make bargains
with god.
You sob to think
of their pitiful corpse
inert and overdosed,
doomed without your rescue.
Good people praise
your goodness.
But no one tells you
the uncanny truth:
this is not righteousness.
You think this is love –
it is not.
You think their deliverance
depends on you –
it does not.
You cannot fix them
for they are addicted to your mercy.
This is not your job.
Their salvation is not your vocation.
You were born an artist or builder
but trained to be
nursemaid
repairman
confessional
and landfill instead.
This is not your purpose.
These willful wounded
fall in the shining path
of your headlights
like plotting trees,
but you fall for their deception
and exit
the car.
Drive on! I say.
You don’t yet know
who you are
without the daily burden
of others’ aid.
You don’t yet know how to live
without their constant need,
or where meaning lies
outside their grateful gaze.
You’ve taught yourself
you enjoy this.
Drive on!
Leave their insistent helplessness
by the roadside.
You can relearn.
You, too
can heal
from addiction.
© S. Rinderle, January 2025
