Holding the hand of an unrelated two year old;
Max
My stomach welcomes the feeling of subtleness
Butterflies dissolve into a wall
In which they are usually trapped inside

I walk into the park
A city of Normal kids are jumping around
Like monkeys swinging in the jungle
I feel the tiny hand linked to mine
Trusting me
I feel lightweight, like a feather
As no ones eyes weigh me down
I pretend for one hour
That Max is my real brother
His hand would never part far from mine
His blood still in the womb of family

That sweet taste of pleasure
Is hard-candy fluttering in my mouth
I am divorced from burdens
The ring of normal is placed gracefully
Upon my finger

But soon
My worship of peace sinks beneath
The soil each child stomps over
The image of truth is fire
Which blazes in my head

the same screaming and jungle-like creatures wail
but this time, not because of exhilaration
because the related, cold hand I hold
appears to be funny to them
my sister snatches my ring from me
spits it out in the gutter
her hand struggles to be released from my grasp
as I struggle to be released from her trap
but the shrieks of other kids
have already sunk into my pulse
the butterflies break into the wall
reminding me I do not have jewels in my hand of Max
i have hot coals burning fingerprinted scars into my hand
fingerprints that crawl all the way to my heart