i did not grow up with siblings.
i grew up with half-sisters, half-brothers,
a step mom, just like in cinderella. except i never met her.
and i never will. (my dad would rather slash his own throat)
i was by myself,
with beanie babies and whispering sunlight.
i had to cover my ears when the screaming pierced,
blindfold my eyes when blood tainted the creases.
i made friends through my bathroom tiles,
the wavy puddles looked like old men, like crushed flowers.
i talked to inanimate objects, squirrels lurking behind bushes.
with the first bunny, i grabbed onto his fur.
with the first dog, i howled and panted, hoping to become.
i drew elaborate stories upon sidewalks, vanished into the lines of
majestic quests.
the real world was nothing but glass with tainted red.

“didn’t you wish you had siblings?”

i escaped. i’m here,
with scrapes and broken bones,
but i’m here.