play, pause, replay

the most horrible shade of blue

Last Christmas, we played the perfect little family

over the dinner table under the dirty yellow lights.

Laughter bubbled through the cracks in the walls,

the scars on our elbows and shoulders and knees

have partly healed, the blood in our mouths has 

dried, the stitch on the lies was back, and our 

flesh was sewn back like it was before.

Follow the lights, they will take you the wrong way.

The smoke that you breathe in, your fingers 

smeared in the colors of decay, the infection's 

spreading too fast, too deep;

there's no saving now, they say.

But we've been living in a circle, never in lines, like

those across your face, criss-cross, criss-cross . . .

She cut her hair, you ripped off your dead skin,

I tried to pray but ended up cursing in the church.

There's never a way, or a promise, or a God.

*

My sister's sleeping beside me; she's

been dead for about a week. The house's

still, the air has turned to ash in my lungs.

I tried to catch a sniff of lavender from her

dress, but I couldn't bring myself to move.

Her skin's paper thin, I wish mine was too,

so I can tear it with a breath and set it on fire.

I hadn't called Mum when I found Phoebe

curled up in the bed, stiff and cold, her lips blue.

Mum was in Italy, perhaps having wine with

rich and gorgeous men or something. The floral

pattern on the pillow is burning in my pupils.

I can't remember how many times I've cried on

it, or even tried to stain it. The roaring silence

is pressing on my skull, squeezing out every 

thought, every inch of sanity, every teardrop,

until all that's left is the weight of my dead sister

next to me, her scent gone, her flames smothered.

I haven't touched her. Not that I won't but I can't.

When was the last time I hugged her or kissed her?

When was the last time we slept in each other's arms

like we were kids again, and the world was simple and

death was just something that happened to other people?

God, I can't even think of anything right now.

My insides are burning, every cavity in my body is

swelling to its fullest, every flower in the garden wilting 

away, while I'm lying here, staring at the ceiling,

listening to the nothing, pondering on what-ifs.