a poetic prose
how come you have never asked? i can see the way the question sits on your tongue. it has colored the thickness of it almost completely, leaving its taste in the sleekness of your cheeks and along the subtle roof ridges of your mouth. does the question taste like a mint or the well-harvested sweets found only in grandma’s purse? how heavy is it? does it make it hard to swallow? to say my name? go on, ask me. ask me how can i hate you when you are me and i am you. you think since we grew up together and will return to dust together i owe you kindness. you think since i have kept your secrets just as you have kept mine i should call you friend. yes, i know that you are me and i am you, but we are not the same. i can’t seem to accept the same truths as you. and there lies the reason why i hate you. i envy your ability to see beauty where i can not. no — i envy your ability to see the good in me, despite my cruelty.
i envy how effortlessly you exist outside of my shame. you remember all that i have forgotten or cut from myself. i don’t really hate you. i just find it hard to stomach us some days. i know my disdain has transformed me into a burden. how could it not when i have spent years defaming you, pulling at the fat of your arms and grumbling about it for days? no that’s a lie. i complained for years. cursing each mole given to you by our mother and bullying our breasts in…
