Dear Pickle,

You are making my face sour. Mom is mad at you for skipping school and I have to talk her down again.

Maybe next time you can write me a 1200 word essay on "How stupid your decisions are", So I can mark it up with red pen before you lose grades on your ribs.

Sister, you need to calm your *** down, because the world isn't a race and the underdog doesn't always come in first, or even second.
But take a second to stop breathing that smoke you call air, everybody is choking on the smell of teen-spirit.
The tattoos not yet ingaved in your skin will serve as a reminder of how you took last place in a family full of sharp broken pieces of glass.
I tell Mom "Don't worry, it's just a phase, she just needs a second to find her place, in this world" But, at this rate, I'm not sure you will.

Because, people will knock on your door and hand you bottles of quick fixes and Novocaine, and I hope that this poem isn't in vain to serve as a reminder of that little girl that still caught fireflies in her teeth.

And I am sorry I left for 3 years without watching your molecules multiply, but I wrote my times tables on the back of my diploma for you to study.

That 6 year old girl with woodland creature cheeks hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl who never failed to puke in the car after a glass of milk hasn't been forgotten.
That 6 year old girl that cried every time we told anyone you are cat food under the kitchen table hasn't been forgotten.

I am sorry, can you bring her back now?

And for me, could you stop making Mom cry, she has watered so many Forget-me-nots that I am afraid her roots are drowning.

Don't get me wrong. I appreciate all the time you bared swords and shields to defend me against the stereotypes that threatened to staple them themselves to the inside of our cheeks, but come on...get your **** together.

We are blood-brothers...with vaginas.
Don't you dare break that bond because if you do I will lock you in the closet, turn the lights of and leave you in there screaming and crying until the rebellion leaves your bladder.

I'm your sister, not your mother. I will not birth any more brother *****-ups for you to father.

Love,
Vinegar.

You were a gift to me. You brought joy to my life. As I held you in my arms, I knew I would never let anything happen to you.  

I stayed by your side through thick and thin. Helped you work out your issues and let out your frustration. We would hand ornaments on the tree and bake cookies together. We spent our childhood together.

Until that one day, when we were ripped apart. The result of some petty argument. I felt powerless. We had no say in anything. I would give up everything just to be with you again.

To this day, I resent Christmas, because it brings back too many memories. I lay under the tree, and things just aren't the same without you.

Alone with my thoughts. Unable to move or thrive outside of the walls that confine me. As my mind slowly decays, I look to the past. I think of what once was and what our world has come to. As some members of society try to survive, others are living the life of luxury, keeping to themselves, enjoying their life while others are dying. They will never understand what it is like, to be the one on the outside, looking in.

That dark, ominous feeling. The feeling of your inner monsters taking over. That empty taste in your mouth. Your eyes bleak, but your thoughts are spinning faster by the minute. The windows to your soul are broken and cracked.

You live in a world of comparison. Longing for perfection, you force your body to take a shape it doesn't want.
You text a ":)" to everyone,  just to cover up the fact that you can't do this alone.  Throwing the phrase "I'm okay" around like confetti, while your inner voice is screaming "I'm broken".

Hiding behind a mask. A shadow to others, unnoticed by all. Some say that beauty lies beneath. Not in today's world. Judgmental eyes follow you like heat-seeking missiles. Their glare can burn you from the inside. As what seems like a million beady eyes staring, you are bound to make a mistake. As you wander aimlessly, hoping for this day to end, the world seems to turn slower, and slower. You feel as if time is against you, that it finds joy in your sorrow. One slip and you are called clumsy. One tear and you are called a crybaby. One wrong answer and you are called stupid. One word and you can be forever laughed at. So if you hold your tongue, remain quiet, never show emotion, and hide in the shadows, you can protect yourself.