Sparkatale

He curled up in the corner
Reminding himself that it was all a game
But in his hand was a little red book in familiar handwriting
Trying to convince him otherwise...
Poor boy, this it was no game
He was real and he is now gone.

A brother abandoned by his older protector
After both were torn from their sister—
Their leader and guardian—
And now he sits with a younger sister to tend to
But he spends his nights crying
Wondering why
The pictures on the wall have to lie to him
Why his sister comes to him for comfort
And though he provides, he wants protection, too...

Third becoming first
Poor boy, he's in a tight spot
Hurting inside but strong on the out
Hating the pain in his baby sister's eyes as she
Comes to him
But more so hating the pain inside himself

He would look from the corner to the empty bed on the other wall
Where his best friend used to reside
And his anger would rise
"How could you abandon me after promising we'd be okay?"
And he throws the book against the wall
Unwilling to read the lies
Unwilling to believe that brother ever existed...
No, he was the oldest...

There was no one else...

His rage would subside and he'd stare at that bedside,
The open red book,
The shattered picture of the two young brothers...
And he sits on his brother's bed and his hands come to his face
And his tears erupt violently
Cries of pain escape loudly
Poor boy, his head is spinning
As is his very world...

He missed them
Those figments of his imagination—
His best friend brother
And his guardian sister—
But now he became what they no longer were
To his younger sister
He was the best friend,
The guardian brother...
His imagination may have failed him
But he was reality
And reality could not fail
The innocent little girl that came to him constantly
Asking when they'd be a family again.

The tears subside momentarily—
He is tired now
Picking up another picture laying face down on the floor
Holding it close to his small chest
He sighs shakily,
Body trembling painfully,
Listening to his mourning parents somewhere in the house

He pulls his weakened body to his own bed
And lays, crying silently again
Picture still in his tiny hands
Poor boy, he fell to sleep
With a picture of his broken family—

His once always-smiling mother
Now her joy hardly graces her eyes or her face;
His once fun-loving father
Nowadays busy trying to take his mind off his pain;
The caretaker
Torn away so long ago... she couldn't have defended herself...
The protector
Shattering his own promises by leaving...
The innocence
Trying to understand why her family was torn apart...
And, finally, himself
His life becoming a lie of strength when he was truly the weakest.

Poor boy...
His whole world destroyed
And his life now a lie to the only one he has left...