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letter to luke
O brother!/o identity strong
Strong, a fragile crocus poking up in february
A spider’s thread
Yes, so strong, so delicate,
Who would you be, to me?
I look in your eyes (which are mine)
I touch my hair (we always liked playing with it)
Brother-brother, who have you become?
Dress’d in dress against our mother’s wishes
Against our father’s roars
Daubed in paint and stitched with embroidery strands
Hung by our own silk-sewn scarves
Our neck is broken in a most splendid way
In the front- that is indeed one of the most sure ways to break one’s neck
(you would know)
Our hands, too small for hammering nails,
Too big for playing the piano
Are no longer clenched in customary fists
Rather nail-marks are fading in our palms
What happened to that fire in our eyes?
The bark in our voice, the rasp when we had screamed too long?
What of our (my) tears?
Fists pounding on pillows for fear of breaking those tiny bones
“you’re overreacting/it’s just a part of being a teenager”
What is a teenager? Is it real? Is it human?
Are we a teenager? I’ve been told
I have an old soul, a wise old thing that sits in my chest and dictates my movements, but brother- i must confess i find myself as wild as you would be
I miss you; when will you come back?
I want to be myself-ourself-