My Brother

I know a person who is trapped so far down in childhood that he struggles more and more with an oncoming fight of maturity. His internal battle is a truth but there is no fighting the truth externally. As he grows his shoulder become broad, his voice somewhat deeper, a bit taller and of course our father’s trademark mass of impenetrable, unruly curls. Still he fights using gel and pomade. He clings to his white tattered blanket he has had for years unable to let go of childhood. The fear of growing up is real and made up words and whining is spewed from his lips. To an outsider this is all comedic, but is it really? Or is it the struggle for attention to stop the gruesome fate of growing up and is merely a cry for help.





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