I could say that she was beautiful, vivacious, funny, bright, intense, and just so alive. I could tell you how she had this kind of slightly cross-eyed look when she laughed; how she used to paint her toenails on the dashboard of my car; how she would shriek with excitement when a certain song came on the radio. I could go back in time and show you a pretty girl with ponytails and bangles talking to her dolls, oblivious to the world around her. But the thing is you don't care about this: your eyes wanted to race on as soon as you read the word "was."
The only "is" for me now in "sister," is the sister-shaped hole – a jagged and raw wound – a gap that only ever gets filled with guilt. You're oh so polite and all, maybe you can even empathize with my loss, but really all that you want to know is just how she died.
Well okay then, this is how it was. A road accident: metal, flesh, glass, and bone. I survived and she did not. I got a couple of scars and a broken leg; she didn’t even get an open casket.
So you think you know me a bit better now; you can see where the guilt fits in; you might want to tell me that it is not my fault that I am still alive; that this kind of guilt is natural. But what I did not tell you is that I was six-beers drunk at the time of the accident, and that I was screaming at her that if she wanted to drive the fucking car that she could take the fucking wheel.
she said she said
i had no
in both length and girth
that i did not have
she left me
for a guy
with a vibrating