I used to live
Inside my sister’s house,
The way the dead live in
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