probably destined to be
The poorest sibling of all,
Yet I'm happy. I'm childless,
Far away, cold and creative.
My own sister calls me mysterious.
Does that mean she doesn't know me?
Do I pass like sand through the fingers,
No better than a whitening lie,
Or a secret bullet on the wind.
I whisper a missive to the sky.
My parents didn't meet her.
A mess in her torn up dress,
Relatively nice singing voice,
Never pretty in her own way.
Three years in and I confess a sin.
You're shocked but supportive.
I make a little more sense I think,
But you still struggle to understand.
The slick fluid dries quick on my hand.
I am pretty good, though
I have my creaking flaws,
Noisier for my bending bones.
The weight is too much weight,
To release or bare alone.
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