Siblings

I was always
the extra baggage.
That ugly, overstuffed,
brown backpack
no one wanted to carry,
so they dumped it
in some corner.

You were the fancy one,
all handles and stickers
and sharp teeth,
like an expensive mower
biting your way
to the coveted
window seat.

We were fellow travellers
taking the underground
through life. Destined for
the same station. But I
decided to get off earlier.

You never forgave me that.