Ode to My Sister Mikyla

I am not good at writing poems, but my sister loves them, and so here is mine. My poem is not one of rhymes, but of simple facts I have gathered from being tethered to a deity. This is but the shortest version of what could have been an entire trilogy- no, an entire library- of the equivalent of ancient relics of the royalty. This poem, it is dedicated to one of newest ethereal beings to have ever have walked in mortal strides. I am but a Target copy to her Dior, yet she says we are placed in the incorrect spots. I have placed her on a pedestal of deserving stature, and yet she still doubts her throne. This poem, is a little vulgar because I am vulgar, and we are vulgar, and this world is vulgar, but we are the greats within it.

Setting the scene of her joyous birth, on a clear morning, 24 years ago, on a crisp and clear July morning, 26 July, 1997. Born with immaculate doe brown eyes that resembled pools of Earth, or of chocolate, with rims of honey or treasures in the sunlight, her skin a honey dipped nutmeg with undertones of gold, with the cries of sirens warning sailors of the sea to tread lightly, and the laughter that could calm an avalanche to silence, and even to a calm whisper. She grows into the most beautiful woman I have ever seen before. Standing at a slimmed 5 foot 3 inches, she is capable of mass destruction if she so chooses to commit them, yet chooses gentleness and kindness, and humor instead. She chooses admiration instead of obssession every day she steps outside a broken heart.

But she was also raised unfairly by outside definition, my definition, yet always admired by her younger, yet not much younger sister. But only by ten minutes, she will point it out in every argument and debate, and even in jokes when we are going at it in giggles and boasts of laughter. She counts the ten minute lapse in time to mock me, but I'll allow it once it rises to opportunity. The bitch-and I dare you to catch you calling her that too- knows she is my best friend, and we have had the greatest honor bestowed on us to not only be sisters, but to be identical twin sisters. What a fucking blessing. I warned this poem would be a little vulgar, however it is still dipped in the most valuable of treasures- it is forged of my sister and the praise I repeat of her.

Strong enough to stay in trouble for fighting, or having an 'unladylike mouth'-reminder-deity mouths are not of human mouths, so she WILL speak when she feels, and how she feels, and to whom she feels, and about what she feels, but back to her reasoning, not me defending her again...

She fought every fight for me, who was bullied, while she was also getting bullied, because she knew how fragile I was. She held her own, no, OUR own well enough to grow the reputation of being "the mean one", or "the fighting one" or "the evil one", yet she was far from evil. She became those rumors once people showed their evil TO us, and her being the stronger of us both embodied it for defensive measures- but yet she is evil for her reaction to the evils bestowed..."Y'all are wack" I blundered in defense of my sister. "Y'all will not break her."

Because growing up in an abusive household, we had a fair exchange: she protects me outside our home, and I protect her inside our home. She was treated as the rotten child, the forgotten child, the misfit child- all lies by my eyes. She was bruised more times than I, and I was stronger behind closed doors to defend her at all costs. I was favored, and I hated that we were ironically mistaken by face, but it was clearer to mistreat HER. And yet, she would show no fear. She would retaliate every blow, she would defend herself alongside me, and yet was still gentle with me. She moved like the Goddesses I have read about, yet was mortal still, not testing too many boundaries, but just enough. I may not keep my composure much because of the emotions that the topic of her may kick up, swirl around, and crash inside of me trying to get the proper verbiage out from point A to point Z, but just know that she means so much to me even THAT will not suffice.

She was mistreated as a kid, but I didn't like that because of this reason alone: Bitch, do you even KNOW my sister? She is over fantastic, godly, perfection strives to become her, but you will never see what I see or how I see her. We would give each other peace amidst the chaos which was our lives together. She has calmed every storm within me, as I did with her. When I felt inadequate for life, she reminded me that I was overflowing with adequacy. She has stopped me from shaking hands in agreement with death so many times, Death keeps me tucked away with the phrase "she is the scam caller of this job as long as her sister is with her." She has called every storm inside of me to a halt when she asks me if I want to talk about it. Calms me every time.

When the Goddesses shaped her, forged her, they conjured rose bushes, filled with the rose petals, rose hearts, rose hips, roots, leaves, and the thorns, whole fully. They built her with kindness, a nurturing spirit, a magnetic being-all of their positive traits. They spitefully sprinkled manic depressive disorder into her once they saw her growing to be greater than themselves. I will never forgive them for doing that injustice, but I will thank them for building everything else in her. I will reminder her until the end of our days that she is a pillar of strength, beauty, and everything sacred to me.

We talk about everything-hot tea gets glugged every chance it arises. We talk about the boys we like, the girls we like, the things most people would be uncomfortable talking about, how we made and lost friends, and how we are feeling that day, or week, or whenever, how work is going, or how it went, or how we are getting ready to go to work. Goodbye is not our departing term, it is 'talk to you later', or 'talk to you soon'. We have done everything you and your best friend could, but had the twist of "Bitch watch this shit:", and put y'all to shame. Not saying that you and your best friend aren't close, it's just you will never be THIS close.

She has helped me build my confidence in more ways than i keep track. Confidence in myself, in my words, in my actions. She taught me heaven really can be a person on earth in the form of a person.

This whole poem I wrote can and will become a framed tapestry for my sister to remind herself what I deeply think of her, my best friend, my rock, my favorite song, favorite book; this poem will turn into an entire Harry Potter series if I don't calm the fuck down. But how can I calm down talking about my sister:

The way she talks, the way she laughs, the way she fights, the way she meets people, the ways she speaks to people, how she emotes in certain situations, EVERYTHING. And you really can't blame me, because how dare you blame me for placing her on the pedestal she deserves. When you hear her sing, know that the sirens of the sea mimicked her voice and turned it into a way they can hunt for men. When you hear her upset, realize the one who upset her should apologize before being greeted by not one, but TWO new problems. When you hear her cry, know that I am right there to comfort her, when you hear her laugh, know that the mountains and trees, the lakes and valleys, the forests and canyons of the world will recognize her and seek for her remedies.

When you think you are the man, or the woman, or the person, of her dreams: compliment her doe, brown eyes, and how they mimic pools of the Earth, or of chocolate, with rims of honey or treasures in the sunlight, and how her eyes remind you that Gaia gave this world its first breath and it embodied her figures, her skin a honey dipped nutmeg with undertones of gold, with her cries of the sirens warning sailors of the sea to tread lightly. And how her laughter that could calm an avalanche to silence, and even to a calm whisper, how her presence makes your soul soar to kiss the universe outside of our hemisphere. How her voice brings peace and beauty to your world, a fragment of that world that stops to turn in admiration of her blessed diaphragm and voice box being directed blissfully to you, or at you.

Tell her that she is among the roots of the rosebush this world has yearned for. She is the woman you have been waiting for. Tell her those words and men it with your entire being, because if you don't mean them and say them, and those words break a single part of her: I will gladly pick up the pieces while crushing you. I may not have kept my composure through this poem of my sister, but know this: she is the roots to all my emotions best presented, and when they entangle themselves within one another, it is hard to best describe the divine deity who is better known to this world as my mortal twin sister.