I was born June 28th,
at four in the morning.
My mother always told me,
that she was in the middle of baking my brother cupcakes for his birthday the day before,
when I wanted to come out.
I smiled as she told me this,
but I knew what she was really saying.
That I disrupted his day in order to be born.
Maybe that's why I feel guilty for being alive.
Or for having a birthday that day after his.
I was supposed to be born later.
Ever since I can remember,
we always had my brother's birthday first.
We always did the fun things on his day.
But mine seemed to be the most boring.
And it's gotten to the point,
that I stopped counting down the days until my birthday.
Because my birthday is just a reminder,
that it wasn't supposed to be my day.