Family.
Not those we are born to, but those who make us whole.
Not what tears us apart, but what ties us together.
Poetry through the Seasons of Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Family.
Not those we are born to, but those who make us whole.
Not what tears us apart, but what ties us together.
A spark
they still call hatred,
but the scent of sweetness
hides underneath,
the perfect match of wit
and struggle.
He shoves.
She slaps.
He welcomes pain.
It feels like love.
Stinking, crazy,
hurtful love.
what if there was another me
who did it better
got it right the first time around
made the drunken parents proud
got accepted to all the best schools
on someone else’s dime
what if he exuded brilliance
stomped on mediocrity
what if everyone admired him
depended on him
he would be so handsome
with the cleanest hair
the darkest eyes
the cleverest of comebacks
wait, no one does clever comebacks
better than me
not even a better me
dawn is morning’s response
to evening’s darkness
* * *
I am an only child,
little sister I have not.
But the kid
appeared one day,
writing journals,
making a nuisance,
altering my life.
What is a life
if not what’s remembered?
Or is what’s remembered
the whole of a life?
Can missing pieces
form a sister,
like God in those first days
molding a planet from the void?
Can a sister form
from shared memories –
skinned knees,
birthday cakes,
the forbidden borrowing
of a favorite sweater?
If memories fail,
does the sister evaporate
like water on a summer sidewalk?
Or do lies fracture,
leaving a prism
of colorful stories behind?