I loved him before he had a name

I wouldn’t strip the shirt off my back for many people,

but for my brother, I would.

And no, I don’t know how to sew,

but I’d learn for him.

If he needed shoes,

I’d walk barefoot over gravel,

my feet bleeding,

still asking if he wanted me to carry him.

If he was hungry,

I’d peel him my last orange.

He probably doesn’t know it,

but if I saw him breaking down,

I’d use the sewing skills I just learned

and stitch him back together—

even if I had to pull thread from my own skin.

My brother is not just my blood.

He is half of me.

A part of me I’d never trade.

For him, I’d give everything.

I’d pour out all the light inside of me,

even if it left me empty—

even if it made me nothing—

as long as he never felt alone at night.

Because I loved him before he had a name.