At the expense of a small wrist dance, I forgot what there was. I forgot the posture, the safety as words hug me, the comfort, the stream falling down my eyes as I hold a pen to write, how it takes the venom out of me, how it kills the illness, suffocates the worries and ease the pain. I forgot the healing at the end, how I read the self-made prescription, wipe up the tears and meet a sense of closure, moving on.
Out of all these people who know nothing about me, you knew and understood what was the heaviest on my wounded heart. So far, I thought it was because you cared for me, your sister. Now looking at it from afar, I think it has always been your way to silence your consciousness and to drown the guilt you felt, and it hurts even more.
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