They called it kindness, wrapped in grace, A hand outstretched in your worst days. But every thread of mercy sewn, Was laced with interest, fully known.
Now years have passed, the debts arise, Not in silence, but in public eyes. Their favors dragged into the light, Not to uplift, but to indict.
No gentle words, just sharpened tongues, That weigh your worth on what was done. Humiliation as the fee, For every crumb of charity.
So here you stand, heart bruised but wise, The cost of helpтАФa harsh disguise. Yet in your ache, a truth is born: No gift is pure if laced with scorn.