No one will catch our tears…
*Carole King’s It’s Too Late on repeat*
It is the dwarfing hour. We are smaller than we’ve ever been. Two sisters, not of blood, but of
I feel when you are not well. When you have lifted too many arms from your chest and the pain of breathing becomes
I know. I always know. I wish I could shut it off, could push you to a darker space meant for invisible things. But you are all I can see when this pain hits me. It is yours. It takes my body and spins me out of control.
In the eyes of miniature dilemmas, we magnify each day. Dying inside while living is an art form we have mastered. We are kinfolk, pitchers of fast balls in a slow game. How could we ever deny the changes growing up would bring?
You blend in perfectly with the perfect people/show them your imperfections/and they attempt to perfect them/yet you reject their advances perfectly.
I love this about you. Hard in your softness,
You are a calculating, matter-of-factly ball of satisfaction, but you break.
Just like everyone else, you break.
And, I have to watch you shatter, scattered pieces
Being grown means crying in the private spaces of closets and turned down beds when no one is home. We are grown now. The tears that fall fade into a sickening place, never to be caught, only
Image Credit: Christine Marks Photography
Author’s Note: I do not like when writing/words/prose/poems come to me like this. But, they do. For my sister, not sister of 25 years.