the sister book

My sister is the issue. My sister has always been the issue. This terrible sad distance. This feeling that it will fail before it has even begun.

I will tell you nothing because everthing will become ammunition in the end. Eveything by the book. my jealous love of you, our competition. The differences between us that feel manufactured. I am the bleeding heart. You, the hard heart. Me with my blank face, you with the perfectly made up mask. We are not so different, we two. We have the same beginnings, the same misplaced hope. The same inherant sadness. The same constant sense of dissapointment rising and falling like a car alarm, unattended. We have a trust issue, you and I. We have a shared guilt.

"I will never call you."

You say this, and I agree because you will never call me.

"Call me if you need me." I say, knowing you will never call. And we are lost to each other in such a sisterly way.

I got it easy or I took the easy path and my road seems somewhat familial. This safe, high, road and the fear of falling I have inherited.

You have your own familial demons and even from this distance I see them resting with you.

So, anyway, I am sorry. I say it, meaningless mantra. I'm sorry I didn't. And the excuses are so convoluted that they swallow the simplicity of the sentiment. I have failed. I have fallen. I have not met thte required standards. The story of my life.

And truthfully? I wanted to and there were all these reasons all these selfish reasons. And so now it is too late.

No atonement necessary. Just this sisterly distance. And I could kick all of it, stamp it to dust. Rage as you would rage. But it means nothing.