The Elder [justin]

We shared a room when
we were kids, when we
still used to dream of
dragons and sword fights
and princesses. I,
even though scared of
heights, was on the top
bunk, he the lower;
we were made to be
this way. Our stories
were different yet the
same, his with danger
and mystery, mine
with deception and
nobility. Back
then we had more things
in common than blood.

He wrote to me about talks
of a drought in the city
which he escaped to; he told
me about the women with
their fishnet stocking legs, their
collared necks, their chocolate on
strawberry lips; he told me
about his pets and parties
and excess. He was a pig
and we hadn’t been the same
for years. He was out having
the time of his life, but I
didn’t mind. I didn’t mind.
I am the one after all
that picked up his share of the
work so easily; I am
the son that is faithful to
his duty; I am the good
boy; I am the brother that
won’t stand for such blatant and
carnal debauchery. I am...

I am now jealous.
There is my father
flung around a corpse
of a son, servants
preparing a feast
for the lost. It has
always been this way;
mom and dad treat us
the same though we act
completely different.
Whenever I get
bored with life I go
running, he flicks a
needle; I go buy
something, he gets the
maid’s legs wrapped around
him in the pool house;
I manufacture
art, he sleeps in till
three. Bastard. How comes
he can get away
with living it up
and still be welcomed
back? Didn’t he lose anything?

We have more in common than
I thought. In fact, I want to
be the younger.