my sister wrote a poem about destruction.
she said she never drank alcohol or took pills to get over the loss.
but i did.
i washed down a bottle that rattles with a bottle of *****.
sometimes i added a sleep aid.
there were a few mornings when i thought i woke up in hell.
i did.
but i wasn’t dead.
the world didn’t allow that. it knew i had to stick around, had too much to do.
that didn’t stop the hospitalization.
didn’t stop my family from taking the locks off my doors.
that’s how i know we were different.
i had a love i would’ve died for.

but i don’t want to die anymore.