Crayola Contract
For the Cousin I Used to Love Like a Sister
Do not tell me that you wish I would marry
a man, when the last ring I wore weighed down
my finger like a rusty anchor. You watched
from the pier and clicked your tongue
in disgust as I drowned. I am only free
because a link snapped, and yet your
eyes were dry while I dragged myself,
dripping, onto splitting wood.
Do not kiss my cheek and whisper about our
unconditional love, when you’ve carved the conditions
into my hand with a quill, every letter burning like
the cigar he pressed into my thigh. You slit a line
into my wrist and told me to sign, expecting me to
cry and obey and pretend you’re still my chosen
sister. I left the line blank and you squeezed
droplets of my blood onto your Crayola contract.
Do not call me your best friend when you
replaced me the second our beliefs differed.
All we have in common anymore is our last
name and a handful of hazy memories. The girl
you grew up with is dead, lungs full of dirty water
and lead, poisoned by promises you never intended
to keep in the first place. Take your prize, martyr,
and leave that bouquet of plastic flowers at her grave.
About the Creator
Kye Earley
I'm a 23 year old creative. I write, act, make youtube videos (search CoffeeCat, you'll find me!). I also really really love cats. I do magic and tarot, so those themes sometimes slip into my work. Oh, and I'm secretly a mermaid.
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