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.