to my sister, who bathed me and fed me volcanic soil while mom worked on the laundry.
to my sister, who pretended I was hers and hung me upside down to remind me I was hers in every angle.
to my sister, who flew over city lights, who looked down on pulsing city veins and brought us to her.
to my sister, who hated the sound of my breath but assured me she’d always be there, regardless of the sounds that left my mouth.
regardless of my laughter.
to my sister, who paid the price of suppressing, who keeps looking on the outside to fix her insides.
to my sister, whose head was bashed with a metal pipe, where now it quivers with an understanding that love doesn’t always have to hurt. it can also feel like resting that same head on warm bosoms, warm grass, hot hands.
to my brother, who scooped me up before the vicious dogs could bite my child face.
to my brother, who wore silk and scabs like ornaments, as if he were a walking tomb, an altar.
to my brother, whose limbs hung like broken branches, whose smile was a sunrise of salvaged shards.
to my brother, who understood that love could be abducted, who understood that warm bosoms, warm grass and hot hands could also lie and separate more easily if cold.
to my brother, who withered into bones, who sank into the Earth, who left just as he came, silent and alone.