It’s your family, little sister, family.
You remember us, don’t you?
We’re your Christmas cards and your cream filling.
We’re your cheering squad and your taste testers—
Think of the barbies, the bears, the bruises that we shared, little sister
How about all the times I carried you home?

Is it coming back to you, little sister?
think hard.

oh.

I’m so sorry, little sister.
We’re trying.
But we can’t see you through all the fog and the fail and the ******* right now—
(the flunk-outs and the tweekers—
they’re ******* parasites, you know that…?)

but we’ll keep looking.
I feel like we’re always looking,
searching, seizing, hunting, hollering,
calling—MIJITA…?!
sorry, little sister, I thought that was you at the door.

Little sister, it wouldn’t be so hard to come home,
I pinky promise.
I made your bed for you, I really did.
and as soon as you come back I’ll French braid your hair, just how you like it.
Mom washed your slippers and got you a dozen new dresses.
And Daddy bought you chocolate turtles—your favorite!
That oughtta do it.
Hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of turtles
waiting for you when you come home
the almond kind—not peanut—just how you like them!
All for you, little sister.
All for you.

The only reason I stare back at you
is to keep myself from looking into the lackluster eyes above your ****** metal bed frame belonging to the only person I could possibly hate more than you.

Which *****.

Because I hate you in a
youtoldmeLenniedies, youatemylastoreo, youdidn’tgetmypoetry, youforgotmy19thbirthday, kind of way.

But it’s her.
It’s her
in the weathered frame
that keeps putting coins in the slot
just to get drunkenly slotted for five minutes at 4 a.m.,

It’s her
that sits with an empty vase
and assures, “It’s fine, I don’t mind,”
while in fact salt water pioneers trek across her pillow,

It’s her
that ironed that patchwork of
dimples and freckles into the mocking mirror
for safe keeping.

Poor thing.
She only
holds thistles to her heart
because scorpions surround her.
What’s a girl to do?
Be bought, be bruised, be broken-hearted, be buried?
She couldn’t help but
frame herself.

I felt you then, Ben
And my skin broke and my eyes seized and I
Was caught in the spider’s web.
I flitted like a leaf.
But hope wasn’t ever enough.
They lied.
All I want is to lie with you, Ben
as still as government
And make love to you, as sweet as forgiveness.
But that’s impossible
You left millenniums ago
And my bus pass is long expired.

Sweet pea soap
consoled purple and green bruises
on wrists and ribs
like dark wine on a white tablecloth
        Stuck.

She sunk deeper
into the bath
let them disappear
she became unblemished
untouched
spared.

She breathed in.

She breathed out.

Reached for soap
and ring caught skin
recoiled her arm jerkily
like a broken jack-in-the-box.

One Vermilion Pearl
tumbled down
and she felt bruises grow jealous.
They pounded on that obstinate wall
grumbling to get out
while this single drop broke
         Free.

And she had done that.
Her.
Not him.
Lucy felt power.
The drop rolled down her wrist and into the grimy water.
Others followed.
The water darkened.

Lucy pulled the drain plug.
Again.
Stared admirably
at the ******, crimson ring
in her quivering hand.

So beautiful
even through the gore.
It slipped silently down the drain
With blood and sweet pea soap and mascara and bath water and tears.
And for the first time

Lucy slept sound.

Do you remember the day
                                                    you killed your mother

         the day the apple turned rotten.

Do you remember how
                                                    you killed your mother
        how you crushed a cigarette in her heart.

And how about
                                                   your father
          with his sturdy knees and smooth thumbs

Do you remember breaking him
                                                    for youth
           and forever


They love you


Do you remember them?

Shooting stars and the backs of cars
we were finding wings.
Flying kites, reaching higher heights
we were fragile things.

Down at Strands (almost) holding hands
one day you said, “love”.
Special nights under Circus lights
all that I dreamed of.

Dances, dresses—all successes,
you can rock a suit.
We watched orangs, I cut your bangs
bowl cuts can be cute.

Five-hundred miles from your bright smiles
sounds so far from sublime.
But yours I’ll be, if you’ll have me,
until  the end of time.

I swallowed you whole and you stomped on my toes,
finding your place in my bones,
and snapping my femur.

You were predator, but I turned you parasite.
No dark thing of the night,
cause see, I knew better.

I wanted the spills and the rage
just so I could slash that pretty, polished page    
with something grander.

And as you climbed my frame with switchblade paws,
wrapped your sickly tail around my delicate drawers,
and clenched my tongue with a flickering finger,
I caught fire.

My lips burned black, smoke stained my dress,
while I put forth a shaky “yes”,


not that you inquired.

He is a seashell and I am the ocean, but it is not his fault.

He can only hold so many grains of salt or sand, he can only catch so many china       tears before they hit the floor and shatter into a billion disappointed slivers, never to be collected or krazy-glued.

It is not his fault.

In today’s society, it is preferred to be flat.

                     So he is blessed, my skipping stone.

It’s the people like me—the bottomless ravines—

That get lost in ourselves
                         That vacuum up lost puppies and paper cuts and hold them with us                                        so tightly that we’re guaranteed to spill over.

But we don’t. No, not even the slightest.

We just get deeper and deeper to make room for the cold water.
       We build secret gardens to plant poisonous roots and we hide them in our green teas and salads.
               We draw lemniscate maps that loop treasure hunters around our hearts, searching forever.
                          We shun the sturdy carp and send love letters to fickle anglers and glumfish.
                                       We refuse to die in our sleep.

His favorite drink is water and his favorite color is blue.
     My favorite drink is whiskey and my favorite color
Is alabaster when it’s raining,
                                     sea foam green if I’m trying,
                                                                               and violet when I’m in the mood.