It is ridiculous,

the twisting of my tongue.

I think of you like the moon and stars has been brought down to eyeline-

yet I shift, and quicksilver insults unfurl beneath my enamel cage.

I release a heavy, puffing sigh. It feels like gunpowder to me. You don't even flinch at the residue- starlight and pure- in front of your feet.

You eye me strangely as I bow at the waist and grapple at my knees.

But you don't understand. You are so wonderfully oblivious, so when you ask my problem and I say you, you laugh like it's a joke.

But you don't hear my heart thrumming in my ears. Nor feel my anxiety rattling.

Both heavy hands on the cages around my heart- dark, and trying to expose itself- shaking.

I fight to keep you from my mind, and I spend most of my time like this.

So much so I forget how to spindle my own tales to you- eyes bright and watching.

You asked me, innocent, to describe the difference between your blue eyes and another's.

I wanted to call yours lovely. I wanted to say they'd capsize a dozen men. I don't; I just say they're paler.

Paler? As though they could ever dwindle?

I listen to her sing over my phone,

light my favourite candle,

glance at her when she misses a chord.

I had put my laptop away, but she makes me want to create.

A flame warding my cold soul,

and I listen.

My fingers draft things ii can never tell her, but I feel,

a screen apart, half an hour drive away.

I clench my jaw at the reminder of her smirk,

cheeks flush from the heat of the fire.

I listen to her talk when she messes up,

comment something that makes her laugh.

It makes my face hurt.

I press the pads of my fingers to my cheek,

I feel the dimple there, my father's, the one I share between two brothers, beneath the fatty tissue given by my mother.

I clench my jaw to stop the feeling swarming like hot honey in my chest,

because she will never feel the same for me.

She'll search for what I feel in the face of men, and ill search for her in a million other women.

I hope they replicate blue eyes, and her eye roll. They won't. But I hope.

I wiped my own tears. I force fed my twisted belly. Soothed my own nightmares.

And yet, I message my trauma that I'm there if she needs me.

I swallow against a thick throat. I wonder if this makes me better than her- for caring.

But she did not care as I was taken advantage of in my sleep.

She went outside for a smoke, so she didn't have to hear it. Or deal with it. a

The nicotine stains the purse I brought that day.

I tore it apart with a patient knife.

I remember, as I type a text to a friendship I did not kill, how I care. But she maimed me beyond repair. And while I look the same- I am not.

I berate myself for sending it. She will not care. The same as she didn't when I had spilt blood into my pants, staining them to the point of burning.

I cannot help the warring of my heart. Perhaps that makes me kinder than her. Perhaps it makes me just as sick.

Three years after my sister disappeared, my parents and I moved to an old farmhouse built on slanted land and surrounded by towering trees.

Our closest neighbors were deer and far too many bugs. The move was long overdue, and we hoped it might help us heal. It felt like a betrayal to Mom—and it was—but it was also about self-preservation.

We had to let Marie go if we were going to continue living. We couldn’t keep clinging to the hope that one day she’d show up at our doorstep, in tears and apologizing.

“I’m sorry for making you all worry!”

Mom didn’t speak to Dad or me for months after we moved. She locked herself in her room, no longer seeing me but looking right through me as if I were a ghost. It made my body burn, and my heart ache.

Dad sympathized and told me to give her space, but I noticed he didn’t look me in the eye either.

I missed my sister and knew my parents blamed me for what happened. They were right—Marie’s disappearance was my fault alone.

\*It should have been you; \* unspoken words hung in the air.

Yes, it should be me instead of Marie, rotting under a pile of dirt, waiting to be unearthed and held.

\*\*\*

Marie often came to me at night—I’d hear her singing from the woods.

Her voice had always been beautiful, and it still was. She pressed her palms against my window, leaving imprints surrounded by frost.

When she smiled, her lips quivered, and her eyes shone like starlight. She whispered my name throughout the night, taught me curses, and hissed enchantments; she sang low and sweet—songs only the dead know.

“It’s not real,” I told myself. “You’re being stupid. It’s just the wind and your imagination.” But the wind doesn’t know my name, and my imagination can’t leave scratches on the window.

I tried to reassure myself that they were simply dreams. Of course, Marie wouldn’t be at my window; I was on the second floor. Of course, my sister would come to the door as we all hoped.

She wasn’t a ghost; she couldn’t possibly be haunting me. I was her twin sister, her best friend. She… wouldn’t.

But deep down, I knew the truth.

And on a foggy morning, I proved myself right.

I found Marie’s locket on my windowsill, coated in thick black mud. She would never have taken it off. My hands trembled as I wiped away the grime and read the inscription. Maybe I was wrong, but once again, I knew I wasn’t.

**“A 2 M 4EVR”**

**“2 U w ❤“**

The sight of it shattered me. I had told myself for years that she was gone, that I had repressed hope, but I hadn’t truly abandoned it. Now, there was no hope left.

\*\*\*

I lost my mind that day.

I ran to the fields and screamed until my throat was raw. I lay on the itchy grass and stared at the sky, watching it darken as the moon bloomed like an iridescent flower.

The fields glittered with lightning bugs. I chased and captured them, ripping their wings off one by one.

Watching their glow fade away made me wonder how long it had taken Marie to die. Had she just lain there, accepting her fate and feeling life drain out of her?

I crushed the bugs, stared at the luminescent smear on my palms, and stuck my fingers into my mouth; it was bitter and sweet.

\*\*\*

The guilt gnawed at me relentlessly. It was my fault Marie was dead. I had pressured her into going to the party. I knew she didn’t want to go—it wasn’t her thing—but I needed a designated driver. The more she refused, the more I cajoled, begged, and taunted her.

“It’ll be fun! Come on! Are you going to waste the rest of your life watching TV with Mom and Dad?”

“God, Marie, don’t you get tired of being the dutiful daughter?”

“How do you think it makes me feel? Oh, Asha, why can’t you be like Marie? Why are you so irresponsible? So dumb?”

“Have a drink, just one. You’ll be fine.”

“Aren’t you tired of living such a boring life?”

“I love you, you know. Come on, Marie! You only live once.”

Marie had come, and I ignored her completely. Instead, I smoked and drank and smoked and drank. I passed out, and when I woke up, I had 20 missed calls from Marie and twice as many from my parents.

My heart dropped into my stomach, and I tried my hardest not to throw up. I immediately knew something was wrong. I knew something terrible had happened to my sweet sister.

\*\*\*

In the aftermath, I tried to connect with Dad in the only way he seemed to notice me—helping around the house.

Our ladder was old and terrifying, but he insisted on using it, so I held it steady as he cleaned the gutters. I stood in his shadow, feeling sick.

I imagined him falling and cracking his head open at my feet, his brain spilling out, his eyes weeping blood.

I was relieved when he finally descended, but the image of his mangled body never left me.

That night, I dreamt of Marie again. She stood in the corner of my room, looking at me. Her tangled hair was full of bugs and earth, and her lips had rotted away, revealing black gums and rotten teeth. I asked what she wanted and begged her to go away.

She smiled and stared at me, and then her eyes rolled back, revealing empty sockets wriggling with maggots.

Sometimes, I smelled blood in the air, and that’s when I knew Marie was nearby. I know Mom sensed her, too.

On the rare occasions we encountered each other, she would look at me, terrified. I imagined Marie clinging to my back, caressing and tracing my face with blood-stained fingertips.

I lost Dad during the height of summer. I found him sitting in the kitchen, staring at a corner, his eyes were unfocused and full of tears.

“She’s here,” he told me. “Asha, your sister is here. I can see her. We shouldn’t have left her. We shouldn’t have left her. We need to find her.”

Then he got up and left, the door banging shut behind him. Days would pass, and he would return home with dirt in his pockets and eyes as red as blood. He would sit at the table and cry, talking to Marie. He apologized to her. She wanted us to find her, and she was upset that we had given up on her.

\*\*\*

The days grew longer, summer felt endless, and Marie’s anger grew with the season. A storm blew in, rain lashed the windows, and the wind shook the house. After it was over, we went outside to check for damage. The house gazed back at us with hundreds of pairs of eyes.

Marie glared at us accusingly. “Have You Seen Me?” her missing posters read.

Yes, sweet sister. I believe we have.

Come back to us.

The ground was soft and sprinkled with teeth. I picked them up while Dad collected the posters. His mouth twitched, and his eyes were cold. I knew he was gone.

As I write this, his body lies crumpled under my window. I heard the crack as his neck broke on impact, and I know I’ll never forget the sound.

Mom has barricaded herself in her room. Occasionally, I hear her laughing, followed by wailing.

Nothing matters anymore. Marie is here, and she’s waiting for me.

The window is open, and I hear her. She’s singing and laughing, her voice warped by time, dirt, and larvae. From the woods, she emerges, beautiful and dark. She gazes up at me and smiles.

The moon is exceptionally bright tonight, and the sky is full of stars. I run outside and try to touch her face, but she pulls away and runs back into the woods. I chase her, and around me, the trees vibrate, and the air shimmers.

I’m going to find her. It has all led to this. I know what to do and where to go. I will sift through the dirt, unearth her bones, and shroud myself in her hair. Together, we will wait for the sun to rise and say goodbye to this world.

We were born together and will leave this life forever. There’s no one left to haunt and nothing left to mourn; all that’s left is the parting of the veil.

Marie, I’m so happy you’re back.

Finally, you’re home.

I was born on a sinking island under a waning moon. They shrouded me in galaxies and fed me broken stars. I was woven into constellations and named after love.

My fate was etched into the universe and written by the night.

And although I sometimes wish I had remained in the nebulae to be cradled and embraced forever by the moon, I know I am not just another star in the sky.

I am exactly where I’m meant to be; besides, I can always look up and feel the comforts of home.

My parents had me in their early 20s—not too young, but young enough. I once asked my mother if I had been unwanted. "No," she replied. "I wished for you for a long time." She thought she'd never become a mother, but she did—four more times.

I was born first, and the eldest children are the experiments—especially daughters. We're the role models; our job is to teach and guide our siblings through life.

I don’t mind being in charge—sure, sometimes I get called bossy, which I pretend to hate but secretly love. It reminds me of Kristy from Ann M. Martin's The Babysitters Club. Kristy is the head bitch in charge—and like her, I relish it.

Life was simple back then. I have an enormous family and was always surrounded by love. When I say huge, I'm not exaggerating—both my mom and dad have eight siblings, and as a result, I have countless aunts, uncles, and dozens upon dozens of cousins.

When I wasn’t with one side of the family, I was with the other, playing, laughing, and annoying each other, as close family does. We were so close we didn’t consider ourselves "just cousins." We were siblings, and we still are. Some bonds never break, no matter the passage of time.

I have often wondered why

The orb of an eye is

Shaped like a world

How it weeps like

The ocean tide

How it lights like

The sun when

It sees the ones it loves

And yet manages

Not to store the hatred

As our hearts do

When the wrong doers

Have had their way

Perhaps it is because

It is a lens but

Not a camera.

So next time

You take an eye

For the eye you have lost

Dissect it,

Search the Cornea,

The Iris, the Aqueous Humour,

I promise You

You will search

In vain, and in

That search be lost

© Bernard Pearson