Sixteen.
Destined by your own delicate hands to never
grow old. Long dark brown hair that was often swooped
effortlessly into a ballerina bun. Permanently
sun kissed skin.
Always light
on your toes, as though you pirouetted through life.  
Forever innocent.
A mind so brilliant, so beyond
your limits.
You were my
best friend. Sisters, we would say.
Ever since the second grade, we were undoubtedly,
firmly codependent on one another.
How?
I ask myself,
did I let you fall so simply?
Angelic in life and
whatever may come after.
But for four years now, I’ve foraged in the depths of
my mind, hoping to find an explanation for why
this happened.
Why do these horrible things happen
to us?
You unknowingly taught me that those we love the most
are the ones who leave the deepest scars.
I had spent a long time
hating you.
Hating you for doing
what you did;
how you left us here.
But how can I hate someone who was so
broken inside?
I can’t.
I hate myself,
for only seeing the
perfect, porcelain twirling doll that I put
up on my mantel.
And when that delicate doll fell,
the only one to blame
was fate.