The Twin

At the hospital, I’m the bad news. My sister, however, lives.

She grows, laughs, and bleeds. Wears clothes and removes them. Scribbles in a journal. Prays.

In her bedroom mirror, I watch her practice conversations, pinch her belly fat, learn to braid her hair. Over, under, in between.

I learn with her.

When she sleeps, I mime her movements, promenade around her bedroom like anything—her clothing, memories, parents—is mine.

Tonight, she stirs and rolls over. Her hair, draped against her pillow, looks like flowing water.

Just once, to touch something real.

Over, under, in between, I recite, reaching…