The first time your sister pushed the needle under your skin
you were naked, smooth and white.
She bloomed color onto your chest and you exploded
blues and reds.
You cried like a baby and shook under the needle and clenched your toes and
whimpered.
She laughed when you moaned,
and begged her to stop.
Told you to grow up.
Grow up.
You came into the shop a boy and left still a boy
(but stranger, less of the one I knew)
and when I peeled away the dressing and rubbed lotion on your broken skin,
I pitied you with love.
In the night, you leaked blood onto the bed sheets.
I didn't have the heart to wake you.
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