This time I can’t
drop everything to help you,
pack the bags you’ve left under my eyes.
You’ve opened every box
in my home and made it yours.
Thief is your new name and
I can’t listen to your toxic words.
Empty beer cans live on the kitchen floor
from our last conversation.
I didn’t know it was so hard to talk
to your sister without a few drinks. More than a few.
Take your boxes, bags, and words
somewhere else You aren’t welcome
in a home where you distract yourself
with medication and technology.
I’m no longer small, you can’t tell me I don’t
understand anything. I’ve unloaded my love
in my home, where you aren’t.
There’s a difference between us.
When you blame Mom: I apologize for my mistakes;
when you take medication I write;
when you drink I sleep.
I’ve built myself up higher than you,
hold my parents close, push temptations away.
You need me more than I need you.
Take a Xanax, drink for awhile,
gossip on Facebook about how crazy your family
is. Pick up a mirror, won’t you? Take a look
at your blurry eyes.