Give Me Love

It isn't a book.

People ask me where I find the time to do all of this. 

And the thing is, 

I never knew. 

I just did it. 

Was it anger?

Was it the repression that I couldn't express?

Maybe.

Because I realised the weeks that are filled with colour,

were filled with such frustration. 

Such pain. 

And I didn't have anything to pour myself into.

So I bled ink onto this.

The thin, delicate flesh that is the replica of my thoughts. 

I didn't find time to do this,

because I never need to.

I didn't find time to do this,

because time found its way,

to my fingers.

To my pens and markers.

There was never a need to find time,

because the book became a need.

The book,

kept me sane. 

Because what I see isn't the brown in your eyes,
the brown that carries the depth of turning grass to concrete.
the brown that has seen too much
but knows too little.
What I see isn't how your irises shine in the sunlight,
it isn't your soul.
Because the windows are shut;
and I see the cold hard reflection that is me.
Do the eyes we share engrave our fates into our blood?
Because I fear I have lost my soul. 

Because what I fear isn't the inability to give,
but the awareness that maybe giving isn't enough anymore.
As if being tied with ribbon,
and wrapped with pretty paper
would conceal the roughness of the bricks.
The heavy "presents" that you lay on top of each other for me,
until I couldn't see your hands,
and so I couldn't give you anything back.
Are your hands rough from the scratches attained
from wrapping the bricks?
I can't see the sunlight that shines,
and I've outgrown my clothes.
But please don't tear this down.
Because I fear it would be winter,
and I would be cold.