Eternal Outsider

I used to live

Inside my sister’s house,

The way the dead live in

Our memories.

Not that I clung to her like spiderwebs,

But it seemed I gently refused

To be forgotten about.

I felt so loved, so cared for, so cherished

While I lived in that house.

My sister was (is) an angel that

No one I’ve met deserves,

Let alone this pile of bones

I call Myself.

I lived with her in New York once,

When I’d dropped out of school and

Thought about dying a lot.

I remember her telling me

Everyone Has a Different Path and

I loved that.

For the first time I felt like

Maybe I could still blossom

And still learn

And still live.

This past winter I wound up

Bound to her again, my womb full with a baby

And my life scattered in all these sharp pieces.

Her home was a place

Of real dinners and real laughter and real love.

And yet still,

I’d enter through the front door

And feel like a stranger; an outsider,

Intruding on a happy


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