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Snakeskin (Or What I Wish My Little Sister Had Said to Me When He and I Said Goodbye)
O’ brother,
I know you and your multitudes:
how your hands are a liability--
How you hated the way
they gave you away
when you spoke and
I remember
that old soccer ball
Grandpa gave you for Christmas--
How you thanked him
through gritted teeth and
said it was just what you wanted,
but took the music box he gave me
from my room late at night
and slow danced with yourself;
You were twelve and I was seven--
but I knew you.
That boy knew you too,
didn't he?
You were seventeen
and he was nineteen
and his voice was silk rain.
The guys at school told you
this country is no place for f****t love
but you knew better;
the city's a wasteland
but in the darkest of midnights,
flowers bloom here too.
And they did for a while,
and you were happy.
I knew you.
You were seventeen and he was nineteen and the winter came and killed your flower and
I wish someone had just come and plucked it off the ground because it's quicker than the frostbite gnawing at the tips of your fingers and
it's a shame he can love both boys and girls because the latter is the only way to survive this s***hole and
he knows this and
you know this but
still you held on so tightly for so long I can see where the rope burns left gashes on your palms where you started to feel him slip away and
I know he feels like home but i can't stand to watch you turn inside out huddled over the toilet every night and
I'm sorry he still wants you because it only makes things harder and
I remember how you once said love was going to save the world and
I can't imagine how it must feel to realize that it couldn't even save you.
You--
O’ brother, I see you
Peering out rain soaked windows
at this glaring Porto sun;
Time has taken its toll
and so you close your weary eyes
and smile
at the rainbows that dance
on your eyelashes
You are here.
You are living.
You will survive him.
This time,
O’ brother,
sink blissfully--
and don't shudder
when you try to think of him
and forget the sound of his voice.
This time,
don't cry--
when you begin to shed him
like snakeskin
at the coming of winter;
because you know now,
as you slither through flowers
fertilized with your own blood
and sweat
and bile
and tears--
that he is not armor,
he is dead weight.
(And these flowers you grew,
remember they are not forget-me-nots.)
You, my brother,
You are honey and thunder.
The mere humming
of your bloodstream's flow
is already
the most beautiful of songs.
Someday, you'll let it sing to you;
someday,
you'll let it carry you home.
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