They say: “Don’t bleed your wounds into others,

so they don’t have to carry the weight of a pain they did not cause.”

But for you,

I’ll erase such nonsense!

from my phone,

from my mind,

from my life.

Bleed into me!

Because maybe, just maybe,

you’ll bleed into my own wounds,

and that means we’ll be closer.

Perhaps it means we can heal, together.

If I feel your pain as much as you do,

does that make your weight any lighter?

If I die for you,

would that make me a better sister?

This is not the kind of poetry I write.

This is you, thinking through my hands for the very first time. This is you who is always writing in blood, always deep. Too deep for me.

I am someone who believes unapologetically that as humans dying for another person you love is easier. Professing our love during hardship?

that’s a burden we’re both willing to bear .But living for someone else?

That’s harder.

People think living for someone means simply sharing with them, helping them.

But it also means it means staying present for yourself and for them, even when they have it good.

Sisterhood has been mocked down to sacrifice,

reduced to the sacredness of secrecy:

“From the cradle to the grave” , that’s the family motto since 97'.

But what happens in between?

So on second thoughts, No!

I don’t want you to bleed into my wounds just to bring us closer.

If you heal for me,

perhaps I would rather live

than die for you.

This is not the kind of poetry I write.

My words are usually more cheerful, more hopeful.

Sharry, See how you’ve made a Sylvia Plath out of me.