To The Sister Who Taught Me To Speak Love - and Mean It

I never thought to write you down
until this moment.
I used to torment you,
slaughter
and trample your laugh
like broken glass.
I stepped down too hard
and cut my feet on your dreams.

I shined the light of sisterhood
in your eyes,
too many times you went blind,
forgot the definition of love
and learned from bruised words
the shape of tombstones
and cyclones.

I trained your tongue
like a Bible,
wrapped white flags like handcuffs
around your wrists
and swore you’d forever drown
until I learned to swim.

So I collected your whispers
in my pockets,
washed them away
and thought it
was okay
to keep you down.

Then it came
like the howling of
hounds from your hands,
quickly,
you eased your mind swiftly,
held my shoulders down
bolder than ever before
and said,
“I love you.”

Our Sisterhood shined through my eyes,
for the first time,
and I
found
the definition of love
in bruised words
the shape of halos
and rainbows.

I never thought it to be true
but some days
I believe
you killed me
with kindness,

held caskets to my cheeks
and stitched stories
from my eyelids
as they

leaked.

And I swear, baby sister,
one day we will
sink these streets in
wrinkled words,
more ancient
than time zones.

So hold my head above the water,
and I will hold yours
up to the sun.