the alcohol lined up with
stacked pill bottles, sobbing
a dark cloud lays upon me
your knock on the door, snap
back to the moment, wipe away
and answer with a smile, you
were silly and carefree, for a
moment my heavy heart lifted
and your laughter saved my life.

Back in elementary school, they used to ask if we had telepathy.
If we could magically read each other’s thoughts,
and talk without words.

Our answer was always yes.
In reality, we both knew we couldn’t.
But back then,
we were still young enough to pretend magic existed.

So I’d face him, cross my fingers,
and pray we were still close enough to understand each other—
just this once.
As we got older, our answers started to differ.
I think that’s when I noticed we were slipping.

Another question they asked:
Could we feel each other’s pain?
He always told them he could feel when I got sick,
when I got my period,
when I was hurting in my head.

Me?
I couldn’t feel a thing.
Sometimes I barely noticed when he was hurting.
But God…
if I could’ve taken his pain into my own body,
I’d have done it ten times over.
And again.
And again.
And again.
Until the only pain he ever felt
was the cramping from my periods.

They asked if we were close.
I thought we were.
I think he did too.
Truth is,
he’s been the only person I’ve known since birth
who’s still here.

I held onto him tightly.
Too tightly, maybe.
I told him what to do—not to control him,
but because I was scared he’d drift.
Scared that if he found better friends,
I’d be replaceable.
Disposable.
Maybe I still am.
But all I know is I’m still here.
Because of him.

Someday, we’ll drift.
I know we will.
He’ll have a life, and so will I.
Someday I’ll flip through old photographs
when I’m wrinkled and slow,
and my grandchildren will ask about the boy next to me,
the one holding me so tightly my face is smooshed.
And I’ll tell them,
“That was my best friend.”

I’ll close my eyes,
and wish I was still young enough to believe
forever might exist.

When I sleep, I’ll be fourteen again.
You’ll still be there.
And that’s all I ever wanted.

In your own house,
you’ll hear birdsong outside your window.
And you’ll remember me—
because I always told you I’d haunt you in every life.
Even as a bird.

But in every universe,
I’ll be your sister.
And in each one,
I’ll hold you closer during the times I didn’t know how to.
I’ll tell you I love you,
so you never doubt I was there for you.

I hope someone loves growing old with you
as much as I loved growing up with you.

I call my grandma Nanny
She told me to call her that so she didn't feel old
But to me she never looked old
She looked about in her late fifties or early sixties to my young eyes
We laughed, we danced and read stories
And at bedtime she sang sweet lullaby's
I played dress up with her old clothes and jewelry sets
Her necklaces always dangled down my chest, because it didn't fit just yet
"I'll give this to you when you are grown," she always said
I'm now seventeen
And when I see Nanny it feels blue
I always remember the harsh words she threw
Calling me "useless," and saying that it's because of the phone
Though I was twelve and it made me feel less alone
I remember the times she commented on the food I ate
I can't eat food now without thinking about my weight
It's not her fault she made me feel this way
She was old, sick and could only see grey
But it now consumes me and it won't go away
It lives in my chest
Like the necklace that didn't fit just yet

i miss the simple life
in the way we all do.
bringing water
from the well –
the blue one –
at every street corner.
collecting firewood
so the winter stock would last,
toasting bread on the fireplace
brushed with a garlic clove,
and salt.

i remember the signs
in windows,
people selling eggs.
creeping into the barn,
scared of spiders
and chickens,
but still collecting them,
while still warm,
and fresh.

we’d scavenge
at the edge of town –
never allowed,
but we went anyway.
swimming in ***** waters,
slick with chemicals
and gasoline,
we didn’t have allergies
to the world.
just rolled around
in grass and dirt,
not caring
what lay beneath,
or might bite.

once, we let the cat taste
the tomato soup
from my mother’s bowl,
while she was on the loo.
we snickered,
choking on laughter,
watching her savour
every spoonful.
we were partners in crime,
my brother and i.

i even miss the smell
of the old theatre.
its worn-out curtains
heavy with nerves
as we danced,
competed,
recited poems,
pretended to be
one of the great
figures of the past,
and lay on the cold,
hardwood floor,
covered in dust.

i could list
these memories for ages.
what it felt like
to be a child.
weightless.
magical.
curious,
and bright.
i wanted to grow up
too quickly.
when i should
have held on tight.

I am the worst murderer of all—
I killed my entire family,
but let them
stay alive.

There is only:
Happy Birthday,
Happy Mother’s Day,
Happy Father’s Day,
Merry Christmas,
Happy New Year.

There is no:
I miss you,
I love you,
When will you come?

I dug their graves
and buried them deep in the ground.
They wounded me immensely.
I gift them
with my nonexistence.

I am
deliberately
destroying our family.

They say a wise woman
builds her home—
I am removing every brick
we so carefully
stacked.

But do not blame
my wisdom,
or the lack of it.

If only I could show you
all the possible endings
of our story—
the ones I’ve built and rebuilt
in my mind and heart—
and still
it would not be enough
for you to forgive me,
for me to forgive myself,
for the shame
of becoming
a beggar
pleading for life.

Jesus, son of David—
have mercy on me.

You chose to move on
and I respect that.
I’m sorry—
truly, deeply sorry—
for destroying us.

I miss us.
I miss the love
that was more attachment
and dependence
than anything else,
but still—
it was something.
It was family.

Chain-link clatters,
her small pickup nosing through.
We’re here for a refrigerator,
her new apartment,
first time I’m meeting anyone in her family.
She’s beautiful,
nervous in the passenger seat,
told me her brother used to be a skinhead.
Now: better, odd jobs,
an Asian wife.

Sparse walls, half an office building
pretending to be a home.
A baby crawls on the kitchen floor.
Mei: tired eyes, lipstick,
business suit, late for work.

Her brother just waking up,
empty malt liquor cans,
talking too fast,
about jobs, about not sleeping.
I’ve seen this math before:
people who struggle to get their life straight,
their day straight, their time straight.

The fridge is light as air,
a few condiments rattling inside.
We slide it out:
black square on the linoleum.
The square bursts,
roaches bloom and scatter at my feet.

Thinking: pick up the baby.
Mei already has her,
no expression,
like this scene’s happened
a hundred times before.

"We’ll keep the fridge outside,
- just a day,
use boric acid, no smell."
I smile when I say it,
like I’m just talking about a squeaky hinge.
Inside it, insects crawl around the compressor.
My girlfriend looks away, down.

Fifteen years from now:
A faraway post online,
in memoriam,
her brother beaten to death.
The baby, the family, now
gone from the map of my life.

Only the black square remains,
still crawling
in the back of my mind.