Gets into the laundry,
the refrigerator,
the trash—
a search for what’s in every space.
Clings to objects
from the past and present,
filling her bed
with plushies, drawings, and trinkets.
Once, she bounced her head
on the pillow before bed.
As a baby,
she made soft, intermittent
throaty ahhh—
a sound that rocked her to sleep.
We shared fears of Dahl’s witches—
both of us anchored,
then and now.
In childhood, she slept like the dead:
arms crossed, perfectly straight,
never moving.
Holding grudges—
like who caused her dog bite.
Independent—
won’t ask, won’t wait.
Online mischief.
Leader of the pack.
Animated
and bright.
Opening up about her life
in late-night talks.
She saw me once—
cut too deep
when the darkness called.
Later,
she found her own blade.
Hiding the pain
behind a cruel mask,
sharp with thorns.
“I hate you,”
“You’re bullying me”—
but inside,
her heart knows.
She calls me cruel—
but still,
she is my anchor.