Written by Gabriella Troy


My sister’s hair glows crimson
in the sunlight. Her hips sway
to the beat of her meandering mind,
and her mouth curves mischievously
around the dramatic tale she has pulled 
from thin air. She is glorious, 
that sister of mine.

My sister’s eyes twinkle copper
in the moonlight. Her lips quirk
unconsciously as she whispers, “are you 
still awake?” towards the sky. She ropes
everyone into her adventures.
Her feet never stop itching to 
run, and that is why she is glorious,
that sister of mine.

My sister’s reflection flickers gray
in the murky dregs of her mug.
Her fingers tap unevenly against its
chipped handle, uncertain of the beat 
they are meant to follow. They are waiting
for a signal from above, and I want to
scream at their foolishness. They are not
supposed to lose their innate rhythm, or
their lighthearted energy, for she is glorious, 
that sister of mine.

My sister’s glasses cannot shine golden
in the unrelenting dark. Her legs have grown
longer but their joints are not sure-footed
enough to twirl. Music drowns her memory of
movement and her headphones block the  
drone of my pleas. I just wish she could see 
what I know: that she is glorious,
that sister of mine.

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