Poem: Twisted Sister

Jez Timms, unsplash.com

Twisted Sister

Sister somewhere

in between,

Real and Pretend

Nightmare and Dream,

Cinderella and the evil Queen

roled up as One,

both good and evil twin.

One believes in Love,

Other believes in Sin,

It’s where the tragedy begins.

Making dreams spark and vibrate true

she builds candied cardboard gingerbread doll houses,

recycles half-dressed dawn dolls

reclaimed from dumpsters,

all her treasured finds

eventually become mine.

I am the youngest baby

shaman of the family,

who always ages backwards

to the infinite Wisdom,

the Power of the Small.

But Sister has Second born power

stronger even than the First

Aspiring to be the best regardless of the order

and her ambition runs straight into the dead sun.

Impoverished like a lost nun

She becomes the dark one

her silloutte eclipsing velvet holograms

behind curtains training me to survive

through laughter attack sudden shock.

Her feet sweep under doorways

stealing time, space and sanity,

gliding mirrored glass panes

to spy on my laid bare secrets

like a lake edged underneath

wooden doors watching me

to catch my undoing nakedness

leaving stray clues

of wicked Hide and Seek.

Her beastly wants to be found out.

Her mirror watchful,

prison guard gaze

that she was afraid of me,

sibling jealousy and rejection.

I was her reminder of innocence

to take, bake and devour,

pure as Snow White’s haunted

Child of Light Power.

In troubled, generations of wilderness,

our home was half-shelter half-prison.

A firelight of ancestors’ regret,

warning us in thunder storms not to forget,

Leave, while you can still be reborn.

But I was spared child sex

slavery and incest,

because our Savior Brother intervened,

like lightquake thunder power,

He protected my child bright light

rescued me from a future lifetime of night

dungeon locked, through closeted doors

of orchestrated touching.

When she was 12 or 13

and I was 6 or 7,

she knew everything that

I couldn’t yet imagine.

Shame flew out deviled and exposed,

“What are you doing!” He shouted and

forever stopped the abuse,

And he disappeared humbly,

heroically silent,

never making more of it

than what it was

never mentioning it again

because he was the oldest,

the diplomat, the savior son.

The things I’ll never comprehend

go hand in hand with forgiveness,

that turns death, shame and darkness

into crystallined memory pain

in capsules gilded with gold

flowing with hope and sorrow

into tomorrow’s raining karmic flowers.

2 Comments Add yours

  1. Megala says:

    Wonderful! Nice to find the marked contrasts between the sisters.


  2. Thanks for your thoughtful comment, Megala.✨


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