Seven years, that’s all that separates him
and I. We share the same DNA, the dark,
chestnut waves of curls on our heads, the
light amber eyes scarred with gold and even
the light bump in the bridge of our noses from
our olive skinned, pure blooded, Italian father.
We grew up in the same brown, barn shaped
house in a quiet neighborhood in the suburbs
of Cleveland. We played GoldenEye 007 for
hours on end in the dark, clammy 70’s decorated
basement. One time, you even let me win despite
being undefeated against all your friends.
Then you left for college and I was alone in the
house we grew up in. You would disappear for
months on end and stroll back in at the convenience
of free laundry and a home cooked meal of our
mother’s famous spaghetti sauce or perhaps just
to gloat about being on the Dean’s list again.
My father’s pride of your accomplishments overshadowed
my care-free, I don’t give a fuck, just wanna be cool
attitude. Certainly, you must have realized my absence
there after? Stumbling pass your judgmental glares
as I raided the fridge at 3am reeking of marijuana.
Using blotches of art to cover the skin I couldn’t live in.
I fell in love with another man and I can remember
the night you told me I didn’t deserve our last name.
I lost all respect for you. We no longer spoke, just yelled.
Instead of going to your wedding, I dropped acid in
the park and thought how it would be to have been born
an only child.
