By Joe Young


In some way I do not understand how I have become your brother in this house. I come and go and never answer any questions as to why (I do not answer because they are not asked) and your mother asks me to join her for cigarettes outside because she does not know you smoke.

I sit at the table when food is served and I complain when the fridge is bare.

“I don’t understand how, but I have become your brother in this house,” I think, as you straddle and thrust and come and sometimes squirm when my knuckle presses on you wrong.

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