my depression is made of stitches

—of little tears in the patchwork
where the birds nibble away
at the seeds in my heart,
at the emptiness too ****
—what can love here impart?

oh sweetheart, love,
it is not that you are lacking—
your care is not slacking,
my heart is not cracking,
please don’t go packing—

but your love slips through my holes.