BOYS

p. phoenix the runaway brother

phoenix was my little brother,
and he was eternal and constant,
and he never learned how to rise
from the ashes because he never
learnt how to burn and die.
maybe because he was human,
and he was real, raw, and ugly
in ways birds from myths could never be.

phoenix was a voiceless child
because he never knew when his words
would push me into sadness and anger,
and i was a feather
that even the softest breaths could sway,
so let alone the wind storms
that roamed our home.

(i used to think he was afraid
of my sadness and anger,
but maybe he just didn't want
to make the storm worse for me.)

phoenix was a middle-schooler
when he had grown his voice,
and he started to use it too much
in a house where voices were storms.
he'd pour his anger onto our parents
and his bitter cigarettes,
and they, in return, would pour their
anger onto me and my secrets the way
the sky poured its emotions onto us.
yet in spite of all, the sound of pouring rain
hitting the asphalt,
still resembled the sound of a heartbeat
than it ever resembled anger or tears.

(i'd fight back and i'd sneak out
and i'd bring boys to my room,
and they'd tell me i corrupted him
and they'd ask me if it was to spite them;

but phoenix never fought back —
he only started fights he didn't end,
and he never snuck out —
he simply pushed past everybody
and left through the main door,
and he never brought boys to his room —
it just wasn't his thing.)

i was loud when phoenix was deafening,
i was full of anger when phoenix was made of fire,
i was a mess when phoenix was a catastrophe.
and i was reaching the end when he barely started.

by the time phoenix was in high-school,
he was already too deep in problems.
he came home with blood on his knuckles
and he went to his room with slap-marks
on his cheeks, and i only wondered how
he hadn't lost his hoarse voice
to all the screaming he did,
but i never could blame
him for screaming in a home
where thunderclouds floated around
and lightning bolts danced on the walls.

(phoenix never broke down in front of
anybody but me; was this something to be
worried about or did it mean i was a good brother?)

the night phoenix turned sixteen,
no one knew where he was.
he disappeared with stolen money
and a frame with a picture
of us together.

two weeks later,
he showed up at my window
and told me he won't be coming back home,
i let him go,
because he was better off alone
in a home without storms,

because if i was a moody feather stuck in a storm,
he was a mythological bird stuck in a catastrophic reality.