At thirteen, my sister was my best friend and we

would drive the country roads; the only real

 

companion I ever knew. Her thin wrists were cool

to the touch, and I wished that curve was something we

 

shared. But her legs never stopped growing, and I was left

with stout stumps like sturdy oaks. When she went to school

 

I vowed for a change, to carve my bones to the point that we

were mirrored images; but where the memories of her lurk-

 

ed no longer was there a sense of joy. I realized too late

that my differences made me holy, and when we

 

met for holidays I couldn’t keep up, a harsh strike

to my gut and blurry eyes that couldn’t see straight.

 

My clavicles were tethered wings, and as we

sat sipping our iced coffees the caged birds would sing

 

beneath the skin, a secret beneath as delicious as sin.

You’re looking great, she’d say, but together we

 

would size each other up, thin patience and thin

faces turning our blood bitter like the taste of gin.

 

It came to the point that every other We-

dnesday I’d wrap myself in smooth jazz

 

to hide the fact I didn’t think I’d make it until June.

But now I’m laced in leather and string, and we

 

have never been more different. I refuse to die

the same death, but I feel my body failing soon.