my brother learns to fly before he draws his blade on me,

slips on his first set of wings and devours gravity. shoots an

expectant hand up and runs it through sunlight like a river he intends

to tame. he’s clad in a vehemence siphoned from years of never being told

no: every bitten tongue, every swallowed retort of mine fashion themselves

into feathers in his arsenal—wings become weapons become warfare.

this is the flight i could only dream of: rebirth etched in his skies,

a daedalus destiny in mine. the false architect of his own ambition:

he sugarcoats betrayals, steeps them in foolish nectar, but i am still here

staring at the sharp end of his sword, my pen positioned as if i could assuage

this hurt blooming in my chest. now, which is mightier?

the creator in me falters—if i could write his wings out of existence,

i would.