All I’ve ever wanted was to save you from yourself.

With the odds of an early grave being stacked against us.

You’ve always felt older than I

Despite my role as the black sheep preceding you.

I suppose on some deeper level I always knew

The apex predator within would roar in his iron cage,

Unable to see past his own selfish desires.

The trail of breadcrumbs turned to drops of blood—

We don’t need a twister to meet our Wicked Witch—

She calls herself Mother.

Her uterus is a gas chamber,

Smothering us well past our baking time.

When she opened the oven,

You were burnt to a crisp

And I was still raw.

She baked me on low heat

Until my trauma bubbled over.

And I spent years in the cycle of grief

Before I could look over to your plate

To see that you were consumed while I was running in circles.

And my reflection in its emptiness

Returned to shake hands with your ghost.