pissy buckets of shitty poetry

first memories strike twice!

(memo: work on it, the title could do for a little something. Consider this a draft)

98
"Why wasn't I born right, V?"
He looks at me from the ground, and I tower over his little figure, casting the shadow fate had reserved for him with my own two hands, as my parents did before me, in that corridor.
I have no reply.
Why wasn't I born right?

I try to be soft. I try to be gentle. I try to be honest.
"V, I don't really have an answer to that."

"Do you at least have a solution?" He asks, like the clever little kid he is, holding back tears and a knot in his throat.
"I'm working on it," I say as I mirror his hopelessness.

An audience to entertain,
someone to avenge,
and my very own motif.

I leave him there, in the dark corridor whose light stopped working too soon.