It doesn’t interest me to accept your help.
To have my whole life be controlled by you like a savage animal.
Caged,
Captivated.

It doesn’t interest me to depend on you to finish what I started.
To start what I finished,
to begin something that shouldn’t,
to alter MY life.

It doesn’t interest me to be in debt,
like the house owner to the banker.
To have to wait for you to tell ME what to do because
“I OWE YOU ONE.”

It doesn’t interest me to feel your eyes of pity,
like me needing something makes me look helpless.
Weak
Stupid

It doesn’t interest me to sell my soul to the devil,
because apparently a favor is something that can be traded,
like coffee beans,
or playing cards.

It doesn’t interest me to make you feel better about yourself.
For you to see me as an object that can improve your image.
To be the cape you wear to feel powerful,
because you’re trying to be the hero.

So what am I?
The chair being sat on?
The mat being stepped on?
The toy you carelessly tossed aside when you were a young child?

So I’ll say it again,
it doesn’t interest me to accept your help.