I wish to leave my body,
Keeping my soul tacked beneath my skin,
So that as Gemini I could exist,
Both within and without, myself.
I wish to kiss my insecurity,
And tell myself of my worth.
Judgment lays before me and God,
None other  know each and every causation.
Yet instead,
This other me is poised,
Knife in hand.
Her palms are stained red,
Cutting my soul is no new hobby of hers.
I long for her,
To recognize me as good enough,
Cute,
Smart,
But she refuses,
And stabs the knife again.

I want her to stay,
How I long for winter snow to never melt.
I beg her tires to fall from the axels,
To keep her near.
To cage such a bird,
Who has never sang before me,
Yet I can’t help but question,
What if she were to stay?
I long for a mother’s embrace,
And tremble at it’s absence.
Her words fall bittersweet,
Kissing her tongue in sour tones.
Telling me of our alikeness,
Makes the flowers in my ribcage bloom,
As she simultaneously picks these,
Greed glowing from her ghastly eyes.
But I want her to stay,
Beg for her love despite the pain.
She’s landed herself on one of my pedestal’s,
And fear coaxes me to let her stay there.
Distance offer’s salvation from her,
But my heart crumbles as if it’s foundations weren’t quite complete.
I want her to stay,
But it’s best if she goes.
A mother who cannot love,
Isn’t really a mother at all.

Isn’t a home warm and welcoming?
Safe and soothing?
A home is good food,
And heartfelt laughter.

But each river has two banks,
One could be the perfect beach,
But on the other,
Mud and dirt await.

Sleeping in that room gives me nightmares,
Conversations are always arguments.
Home is a spider web I’m trapped in,
But never quite sure If I should escape.

One day they’re all teasing and tickle fights,
Smiles bubbling to the surface in my mom’s homemade chicken soup.
The next their faces contort,
Disapproval filling their countence.

Home is warm blankets while we watch movies,
All huddled together,
Hot chocolate at the ready.
But home is also a room I lock myself in,
Running from their yelling.

Home is secrets kept between sisters,
Whispered to eager ears.
Or surviving a bus ride together,
While sharing our music.

But home is also a bus ride away,
An eternity of mockery,
And name calling.
Of music to block out their voices.

Cold one day,
Warm the next,
My family is my home.

My little sister was stuffed into a teapot,


Its waters are constantly boiling,
And she blames visions invisible to me,
I cradle her burning *** and begin to pour,
As if she’ll come back to me,
But her hair flows into my teacup,
As she refuses to come out,
But no one can see her stuck in her teapot,
And she can’t see the light outside,
Nor hear the cicadas chirp her name,
As the stars fall from wanting to meet her,
Yet the shadows stuff her back inside,
As the world sings to greet her,


She writes notebook after notebook of poems,
Eloquently portraying her teapot,
And the beasts who’d quickly harm her,
But each one winds up thrown away,
As she’s chosen to turn from her gifted talent,
I wish to capture each wrinkled page,
Mounting them on wall after wall,
And give the cicadas a museum of her words to marvel at,


Each one more strange and surprising than the last,
Cat’s meow symphonies of comfort,
As black horses raid the night,
Yet her sacred bible of words,
Shed sooner destroy,
Feeding the fire with her glorious imagination,
As it’s fueled by beauty,
What beauty could possible be created by a girl trapped in a teapot,
What beauty could be found in such a crevice,
And yet she’s found such powerful inspiration from such a space,
But refuses to call upon her power and adore it,
I might as well have a teapot setting in my brain,
Pouring tears for every flame,
Every spark ignited,
Every work abandoned,
She holds a knife to the page,
And slits it’s throat,
As if this creation inside of her,
Is capable of death,
And with each cut,
Destroys pieces of her own heart,
She slides the strands through the spout,
And pretends they’ll disappear,


My sister is stuck inside of a teapot,
And refuses to come out.