To my Sister

You’re sobbing down the phone to us again, begging, bartering.

It wasn’t my knife that wounded you,

but there’s blood on my hands as I rush to stem the flow.

But you’re hurting, vulnerable. 

“How would you know what it’s like?” 

It’s savage; you know the chink in my armour and you strike, defensive.

My heart has never been broken, or so you think. 

But it’s breaking now, with every step away from me you take.

Putting up your guard, blocking me out.

I know what love is.

It’s you, newborn, with your whole hand curled tight round my finger.

So tiny, perfect.

It’s your head resting on my shoulder for long car rides,

back when monsters were only in your dreams.

Uncomfortable, but I’ll never move you. 

It’s opening identical presents, always pausing so you open it a fraction of a second earlier,

never ruining your surprise. 

Watching your face is a better gift than anything inside the paper.

It’s laughing and running, faster and faster,

until the wind catches our towels and we’re butterflies on the breeze.

It’s saving you the larger slice, my last Rolo, the chocolate donut we’d both prefer. 

Love is sacrifice and compromise; making someone else’s happiness a greater priority than your own,

trusting them to do the same.

I’ve loved you with my whole being since your first breath,

through the screams, the bickering, the fights.

More than anyone else, more than myself.

So you’re right, I don’t understand this war-zone you call a relationship.

How you prostrate yourself in the mud,

begging his forgiveness as he guns down your dreams. 

But I will stand guard over you, no matter the enemy you face. 

Because you’re my little sister.

The love of my life.