~5 minutes read time

---

[1] The girl has my face, but she is not me. 

She stares at me with sad eyes–

my sad eyes–

but they do not blink when I tell them to blink,

and they do not cry when I mourn. 

Her lips are mine 

but they do not curl up when I am happy, 

they do not frown when I am displeased. 

How is it that she can have this face, 

these features so prominently mine, 

yet they do not reflect my feelings? 

How is it that when I look at her, 

I see myself reflected, 

yet there is no piece of glass in front of me? 

It is true that we come from the same blood, the same flesh, 

but that should not mean we are identical, right? 

My sister’s heart does not beat in rhythm with my own, 

and it is in that way that divides us, 

making us different people. 

So why do the similarities still haunt me?

How can one come to terms with their own identity, 

when it appears to have been stolen?

[2] The moment she was born,

my face was no longer my own.

Strangers on sidewalks would beam, 

“Cookie cutter children, just like their mommy!”

Does my face tell my story?

Or does it tell hers?

Can you see the tear stained pillows through my eyes?

Or the pleading cries from my mouth?

Can you see the pain in my freckles?

Or the insecurities in my hair?

Or do you just see the copy paste kids,

with the same colored eyes?

Many times repeated

until we all grew up,

looking the exact same.

[3] Sisters are blessings,

imitations of sincere flattery,

adorned in hand-me-down dressings,

victims of adolescent battery.

Sisters are also parrots,

saying whatever you said,

pretending to have the same merits,

forgetting the words took root in your head.

Eldest translates to mother,

of kids I didn’t even have,

of kids who often smother,

what little individuality I had.

Loving is like losing,

a part of me I never knew,

a constant reminder of bruising,

my ego purple and blue.

Sisters are supposed to be blessings,

this, I know for certain,

which is why after introspective pressings,

I feel so guilty for thinking them a burden.

[4] She will yell at me, and she

will pick fights for no 

apparent reason

she will curse me, and blame

me, screaming

that I am the worst thing

that has ever happened to her, and I

will resent the fact that 

she is just like me, she 

likes the same things, blinks

with the same capacity, and speaks

with the same flourishes, and yet

she will still gnarl her teeth with

vicious anger

at my very insulting insolence, that I 

dare make the, assumption,

insinuation, connection,

between these similarities. 

But if, at the end of the day

she comes to me with her sad eyes

welling with tears, eerily

similar to mine

curling up in my bed, begging

for my comfort, pining 

for my warmth,

I will tell her that everything

will be okay, because

that is what I am supposed

to do, that is

how it was meant to be.

no amount of fighting,

no matter how much sass,

attitude, name-calling,

can take away the simple fact, that

I am a protector, I am hers,

forever and always, my duty.

[5] My gentle hand delicately plucks the flowers one by one

It is bittersweet to know that 

after months of picking the dirt beneath my fingernails,

and watering at dawn,

admiring growth,

and pruning away shriveled leaves,

my darlings must be guillotined.

My gardening shears sever

life, roots, bounty

from

aesthetic, scented, beauty.

With each flower I think of them

A Rose pricks me, and I laugh

the blood blooms across my tongue 

as I stick my finger in my mouth

‘so temperamental’ I tsk.

Daisies giggle in the wind

small and delicate in the palm of my hand

I remember when I used to hold her 

and braid them into her hair.

My Carnations dance and I reminisce 

upon the way that frilly dress looked on her

as she stood in the living room

smiling for pictures.

The Sunflowers loom over me

and I have never felt so small

I am reminded of the room I make

whenever she is standing next to me.

But when I get to the Mums

something halts within my heart.

I look at the compact petals

and think about how my life has felt so full,

how tight I’ve had to squeeze everything together,

and I begin to cry.

I have already killed my

Rose, my

Daisy, my

Carnation, my

Sunflower, so why

with shears in hand can I 

not bring myself to kill 

my Chrysanthemums?

To kill myself?

Pluck my petals and I will weep;

tear me from my roots and I will bleed.

I look forlornly at my desecrated garden,

my corpse bouquet hanging limply in my hands.

As I turn around to leave

the Mums sway softly 

in the breeze behind my back

and I do not cut them,

instead I leave them to rot,

and go to find a vase for my flowers.