he tells me stories i can't believe
he is a confessor
and i his priest
he tells me things i didn't need to know
he tells me things that help me understand
chain smoking
voice devoid of emotion
the tales of his trouble youth
he tells me of a boy
bereft with grief
who drinks and fights to make the demons die
he paints pictures
of warm summer nights
hot-blooded fights
where cash is paid to the one whe can spill the most blood
drunk irish temper
black out fighter
he smokes
and talks


I look at him and struggle to see this angry monster that he paints
he is slim now, and quiet
he wears girls pants
he listens to coheed
he's not afraid to cry......

I see him as he was so many years ago
when we played together in the woods
and spent our summers swimming in the storms

but he tells me these things to make me understand the way he used to be

i don't judge him
i can't hate him


i still just see my baby brother

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