My brother is fighting a constant fight.
The fabric that rests on his back has always been different,
strange, sideways, inside out.
The tag that rests against the skin of his neck,
scratching, uncomfortable, strange.
Children judge not where his heart is placed, in his chest,
but the way his clothes are molded against his back.

He doesn’t understand.

He’s  determined.
Determined to fit in, but he can’t quite catch up, left behind.
The cuffs of his pants wrap around the tops of his ankles,
rising further and further the more he runs and jumps, into the large horde,
crowded around him.
Forced together,
by the large, daunting figures hidden by the shadows.
They whisper behind his back, the fabric
brushing his legs rises, upwards, even when everybody else’s falls.

He doesn't understand.

He has strength.
His darkened hair is pulled upwards by the silent gravity.
Like puppets being held by strings,
strings that the master controls.
The puppet forgets,
forgets to polish his crooked, hollow wood,
even if the master reminds him,
over and over, again and again.

He doesn’t understand.

He’s powerless.
He can’t control the length of his sharpened nails,
the dust that settles on his skin,
or the fur that gathers on the enamel.
His clothes gather stains,
but he endures their taunts,
endures their fake smiles and empty eyes.

He doesn’t understand.

But he doesn’t understand?
He sits there, fumbling with his shoe-laces,
brows furrowed in determination.
He ignores their smirks of contempt,
his fingers slip.
Hidden in the back of his mind,
he tries to understand,
why he’s so different?
But he can’t.