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To my 50 something WordPress family.

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Brother

There were fights

When I was 6.

Angry slurs and misinterpreted

Dreams. Big words in the big world.

I used to cry a lot

And my brother held me

Hugged me and promised that

Everything would be all right.

 

He was right.

 

When there were people

Eating me up with their

Inquisitions… I

felt like packing my bag

My crayons, my books, my toothbrush

And just leave. They were bad people.

Nosy people.

Breaking my globe into two pieces.

Probing us to choose sides.

Brother scolded; knocked

sense into their heads.

They left me alone.

No buzz in my head anymore.

 

Brother, the savior.

 

I was 13 then. I’m 20 now.

We’re grown adults.

My 30 year old brother still

Saves me when

I’m grasping for air.

When the demons are back.

When I have accepted the raging war

to be my own. He shakes me as if

waking me up from a bad dream.

His shoulders droopy from the world’s weight

His eyes sunk. His lips battling to fake a smile.

 

I can see his tears when I fight back.

 

We don’t talk about friends,

lovers or troubling matters.

We don’t take cigarette breaks together

We don’t get high. Our shoes are

rooted and caged to the ground.

We don’t need to talk. He

understands.

He hears without me saying.

The moment I slip. The moment

the life-ending thoughts pour

into my veins… I know

he’ll rush and grab my hand

And pull me out of the sealed jar.

 

“I’m messed up.” I croak.

“I know. But I’m still here.”