sister

i was six when i blew out my candles and
wished that i was Peter Pan and you were
Wendy Darling. for a year,
you still laughed with me when we threw out our

veggies and watched them swirl in the toilet
and hid under the bunk bed that we
shared. then you asked for a new bed and moved
into the room next door where we couldn’t play

board games under the moonlight or whisper
about the new dollhouse with a built in elevator
and the rock garden we planted in the backyard that
you convinced me was growing. thriving. like

the promise you made me when i sat next to you
on the piano seat waiting for the song to finish.
we’ll be together forever, until you went to
a different school that was three years instead of

five. when you began to brush your teeth past
11, i waited in my room until you fell asleep and i
slipped onto the carpet by your bed so it could be like
nothing changed. you stepped on my leg

in the morning and screamed like you saw
a ghost, but i was very real, even though it seemed
you could no longer see me. i told you what i told
myself every day since the sixth birthday

but you said i was just a silly goose
who had never finished the story of Neverland
and you smiled down at my hand tugging on your belt loops
because we were just

two girls wandering among the stars.

3 thoughts on “sister

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