My fist thumping against his empty chest. My little brother small and shaking and sick in the corner. My fist thumping against his empty chest thumping like a drum. Little brother sick on the floor, his eyes not meeting the mess, too scared to. Little brother shaking.
I know you. I wish I didn't but I know you and you're dead and now she's dead and I'm not and so I guess I'll carry you. I still know you, I can still smell you, and you don't even know yourself. Believe me, I would drop/down/lose/leave/shoot/burn you in a heartbeat, if you were sweet baby Jesus himself I would leave you on the shoulder of the highway on a rainy afternoon and never look back, but I can't and you're not and so I still carry you around. But you're mine, because I'm still breathing. You're mine, and I'm yours. But don't try it on me. Don't try that look on me.