I carry my little sister in my calloused palms when she is born.
I carry heaviness the weight of a metric ton,
while she is light, airless, open.
Innocence is something born, not corrupted by sin but
briefly kissed by the nature.
I carry guilt, glory, gallant lies,
and her truth is set free from her small flutters of her eyes.
I carry shame, shyness, sharp pain,
she holds joy in a small fist.
I carry anger close to my chest,
molding it to my heart.
She fosters a warmth inside that touches me fleetingly.
I carry my little sister when she is sad,
a type of despondency that is juvenile in
comparison to the weight of depression.
I carry her tears in a bucket mixed with my own,
I cannot help her.
I carry her away from my chest so she doesn’t feel my anger,
my anger that is not at her but at myself.
I carry her innocence on my sleeve so that I may feel less dirty,
so that she may take away my rags and wash me clean.
I carry everything that I am not, in her.