My edges are rough, lined with scars and wounds from past battles, whether it was a fight with the coffee table at midnight, or the wall of my bedroom after a bad day.

Each crack in my surface allows a glimpse into my life with you.
The scar above my left eye is the only remnant of that summer baseball game- your first one.
I remember you crying when that stray ball hit me in the face.
I think you cried more than I did.

Or the knick on my knee from when we fell off the top bunk.
I was so mad at you, and you wouldn’t let go, your grip on my shirt like a vice, so over we went, down we tumbled.
Mom was so angry.
I was so sorry.
I wish I could take it all back.

The knuckles on my right hand forever bear your name, although you don’t know it. The RA next door wasn’t too happy when I woke her up at 1am, taking my frustration out on the wall we shared.
but you made me so mad.
It was the first time we were away from each other for over a week.
What a way to fight.

The cracks have gotten more visible as time wore on, the fissures in my skin deeper as i get older, and you drift away.
It’s like you’re pulling me to pieces.
More marks have joined my old ones from childhood, but like whiskey, they burn and distort my thoughts, getting stronger as time goes by.

You can’t possibly know this, since the radio silence has stretched to seven months.
I wonder if you’ve counted the days, like I have.
It might just be an older sister thing, but I have.
January 9, 2013. Seven months, 3 days.

I’ve heard from you twice since then, both brief, as if I was a tedious household chore.
I hope you remember the scars.


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