Antioxidants detoxify. Cinnamon-ginger tea, chia seed, re-strained. Cardamom’s black (white-washing the maid). Sister state, no relation. Third-person designation. Delayed coronation. Put-upon indignation.
Shuttered nights, shut-eye unsung, kumquats padding the rump. Red-eyed flights, blue-eyed knights, escorting you back to kingdom come (hiding your geld-guilt below the sun’s thumb). Cupping your breasts to eek out a lump sum.
Keep her around to recall broken heels. It won’t hurt more if you say she won’t feel. Ever-seeking restorations of paintings you can’t recreate. Plunge partner-less into the abyss, still calling, “Checkmate.”
Rescinding opulent offers as they tumble from designer tumblers. Leave rings without coasters — fuck the gutter-bum numbers. Fling ashtrays at the croakers who can’t read your mind. For the ones who can, keep burning them blind.
Rip bared-skin scar-tissue and deny there’s an issue. Pick at the scabs; don’t tell them you’re sad. Cauterize wounds, tend to them with thread (wish you were dead — want her living instead). Feel free to love, if only in bed. Tightly leash the horned beast you tithed to Sister Dread. She looks just like you, but eye-lined with grey lead.
Blanket yourself in her tombstone perfume. Smell fresher than corpses and watch the gloom bloom.
“Sis” © Jane Bled 2017
Hard to discern the dissimilarities in such close quarters with Muse.
Readers: thank you for providing the view(s).