an angry reverie

I give and I give and I give until there’s no more blood left in my body and then I wonder why I’m drained.

I'm emotionally exhausted, trying to keep up with ghosts that slip through my grasp.

I over share, I give too much, and I certainly love too easily.

My love is a gift and I should keep it safe for people who will cherish it. But isn’t that selfish? I’m not sure what to think anymore.

For once can’t I be the muse?

Can I be the one poetry is written about?

For once, could a story be written with me in mind?

I’m always and forever the sculptor, the painter, the maker.

I’d love to lay back and be the one who is painted.

Can you sculpt me? Can you write me with all my facets into a finite language?

Here I am, expecting people to be my saviors when they’d never bleed for me.