Sicksicksick.
002.
This is wrong.
This is sick. Disturbing, wrong, gross, sinful.
He's my older brother, for God's sake. He's the one who I'm supposed to be telling about my evil ex-girlfriend, in the hope that he won't let her in or he won't let her shoot me.
I shouldn't be thinking like this, at all.
Well, my reasoning is that we couldn't have kids, so it doesn't matter if we ever did do anything. It’s not like my mom would notice a massive bump attached to one of us. The worst that could happen is an STD, and anyway, I don’t care about that.
That’s what makes it sick, isn’t it?
The fact I love him enough to not care about my own personal health and hygiene.
The fact that he’s so closely related to me, the fact that we share DNA. The fact that our parents are the same people.
My brother. Most people use the word ‘brother’ as a close friend, almost a therapist, sometimes maybe as an enemy, but I’m not normal.
My brother means my forbidden lover.
I wish he wasn’t always intoxicated. That he wasn’t constantly ‘under the influence’. Why can’t he just be him again, not the new ‘him’. I can’t describe him as a person anymore, just a human shell.
And who’s gonna be the one left behind after his liver packs in? Or his lungs have developed cancer from the tar? Or his heart can’t keep up, beating at three thousand thumps a minute because of the ecstasy?
Me.
I’ll be left behind, trying to pick up the pieces, and then on top of that, having to let go of them and throw the remains out, like a prized, shattered glass vase.
I know he thinks I hate him for it, but that’s the furthest from the truth he could ever get. I could never hate him, no matter what. I couldn’t hate him if I wore myself out trying to. It just couldn’t happen.
I love him, I really do. It’s more a simple, uncomplicated young love, it’s a web of deceit, horror, spilled blood, lies, emotion, synthetic feelings, plastered faces, and above all, scribbling out all the hell, our little piece of tangled heaven – our differing love.
It’s like every feeling in the cosmos has been written in a diary in calligraphy, and then we’ve come along, claimed the paper as our own and grabbed ink made of our blood and scrawled our love across it.
Our blood matches, but it’s so different. His is going to go to heaven when it ceases to flow around his body, mine is going to drip to hell to fuel the fires.
He’s normal.
My body has been slashed at with the knife of sin. My heart stabbed and cut up, pulled apart by tools dripping in my blood.
Worst of all? I know the feelings aren’t going away. They’re staying there, firmly sewn to my insides with cotton made of a diamond’s tears.
We’re still brothers though, after it all. Through the love, tears, pain, longing, forbidden feeling of it, he’s still my brother, who I’ve fought with, argued with, and been annoyed at. He’s still the little boy who wouldn’t share his candy with me, as a child and he’s the little boy who I tattled on as a kid. He’s still that kid who my mother told me to get along with, to put our differences aside and be friends. I’m not under the illusion that he’s going to see things through my damaged eyes.
He’s to perfect to be tainted with this sickness.
This is sick. Disturbing, wrong, gross, sinful.
He's my older brother, for God's sake. He's the one who I'm supposed to be telling about my evil ex-girlfriend, in the hope that he won't let her in or he won't let her shoot me.
I shouldn't be thinking like this, at all.
Well, my reasoning is that we couldn't have kids, so it doesn't matter if we ever did do anything. It’s not like my mom would notice a massive bump attached to one of us. The worst that could happen is an STD, and anyway, I don’t care about that.
That’s what makes it sick, isn’t it?
The fact I love him enough to not care about my own personal health and hygiene.
The fact that he’s so closely related to me, the fact that we share DNA. The fact that our parents are the same people.
My brother. Most people use the word ‘brother’ as a close friend, almost a therapist, sometimes maybe as an enemy, but I’m not normal.
My brother means my forbidden lover.
I wish he wasn’t always intoxicated. That he wasn’t constantly ‘under the influence’. Why can’t he just be him again, not the new ‘him’. I can’t describe him as a person anymore, just a human shell.
And who’s gonna be the one left behind after his liver packs in? Or his lungs have developed cancer from the tar? Or his heart can’t keep up, beating at three thousand thumps a minute because of the ecstasy?
Me.
I’ll be left behind, trying to pick up the pieces, and then on top of that, having to let go of them and throw the remains out, like a prized, shattered glass vase.
I know he thinks I hate him for it, but that’s the furthest from the truth he could ever get. I could never hate him, no matter what. I couldn’t hate him if I wore myself out trying to. It just couldn’t happen.
I love him, I really do. It’s more a simple, uncomplicated young love, it’s a web of deceit, horror, spilled blood, lies, emotion, synthetic feelings, plastered faces, and above all, scribbling out all the hell, our little piece of tangled heaven – our differing love.
It’s like every feeling in the cosmos has been written in a diary in calligraphy, and then we’ve come along, claimed the paper as our own and grabbed ink made of our blood and scrawled our love across it.
Our blood matches, but it’s so different. His is going to go to heaven when it ceases to flow around his body, mine is going to drip to hell to fuel the fires.
He’s normal.
My body has been slashed at with the knife of sin. My heart stabbed and cut up, pulled apart by tools dripping in my blood.
Worst of all? I know the feelings aren’t going away. They’re staying there, firmly sewn to my insides with cotton made of a diamond’s tears.
We’re still brothers though, after it all. Through the love, tears, pain, longing, forbidden feeling of it, he’s still my brother, who I’ve fought with, argued with, and been annoyed at. He’s still the little boy who wouldn’t share his candy with me, as a child and he’s the little boy who I tattled on as a kid. He’s still that kid who my mother told me to get along with, to put our differences aside and be friends. I’m not under the illusion that he’s going to see things through my damaged eyes.
He’s to perfect to be tainted with this sickness.