I might've been an only child but I was never the favourite. you trailed behind us at every social event, pulling on my hair and stepping on the backs of my shoes. the bottoms of them were so worn out from years of me trying to run away that I could feel every footstep in my lungs. at christmas none of my presents could be wrapped, because we'd learned the first year that it wasn't a good idea. she made me spend hours tearing it off in a straight line, using a ruler as guidance. I was too young to read the numbers on it. this year, I bought her a necklace. I knew I had to give her something even though I wanted to take. she never mentioned it on our Christmas cards, but it was there, it was there in the spacing of our names and the negative space between our warm bodies; we weren't allowed to touch. she hates you so much that she could never bear leaving you. vacuums became my lullaby and my father quickly grew used to never getting kissed on the mouth. I hate you. you were a thorn stuck into the centrepiece of our perfect family, and my psychotherapist says you're the reason I still let myself bleed.