The Absence that Stings Through the Willow Trees
If I cleaned up every mistake, would you look at me?
Would you hold me the way you used to,
Before they took her away and left this house entirely empty
You didn't choose to let her go,
So now you sit in the wreckage of that loss,
Turning your helplessness into a quiet, burning anger.
You look at me and only see what is missing,
Reminding me that I can never replace the joy they stole from you.
I am the one who stayed,
Yet I am the one suffocating under her absence.
You talk as if you are better off without the mess of her
But your fury says the exact opposite:
You are angry that she is gone, and you are angry that I am here.
And as I lie here wallowing in the dark,
Feeling the crushing weight of being the wrong child,
I look at the ghost of the sister you couldn't keep—
And wish, with everything inside me,
That they had taken me instead.
