I might be rough

Forgive me, where I come from is gritty.

My tongue is rough and I bite all too often.

Im used to trial by fire

and being shaped by the hands of an angry God.

so if any expression of how I care about you comes out a little harsh,

or a little sideways,

I need you to know where I come from...

Here.

This is my brother and I.

At a certain point we divorced from our family

(because we knew love sounded differently).

We held hands, got on bikes and chose to ride parallel lives.

This is us. And our home.

We built that.

My brother provided a roof because he always protected me.

His cracked hands constructed each shingle

and wiped away every single sad tear.

I provided the warmth inside our home.

My heart pumped blood for the both of us,

so our cheeks could still stretch out and smile at each other.

We made it for the two of us

to share and trust,

to rebuild what all was lost.

This is my brother.

This is my home.

You can see its faults in full

because we wanted to hide nothing.

We fall apart daily, help each other up

and crumble for fun.

This is my home.

It will never leave.

Here.

I give you this.

My brother and I.

Because I need you to know where I come from.

That I am nicked and bruised,

never smooth

and always wanting of sun

and your laughter

and the gaze/blaze of your eyes.

Here.

This is my brother and I.

This is my home.

I want you to have it.

I want you to know what its like to be home.  

Photo by Michael Seminer.  Words by Jordan Shappell.