an approximation of sunlight on my red/gold curls
the sidewalk cracks and the flowers that push through.
i've always envied your self-confidence,
but i want none of it.
don't mistake that for self-love, darling.
it's only pain.
this walk home always reminds me of you,
and the way you play with ghosts like they're toys
or friends or lovers.
i'm not sure why.
maybe it's those struggling weed/flowers that
aren't supposed to be there.
like us, sister. like me.
we aren't supposed to be here, and yet here we are,
wasting our breath