Crayola Contract

Do not tell me that you wish I would marry

a man, when the last ring I wore weighed down

my finger like a rusty anchor. You watched

from the pier and clicked your tongue

in disgust as I drowned. I am only free

because a link snapped, and yet your

eyes were dry while I dragged myself,

dripping, onto splitting wood.

Do not kiss my cheek and whisper about our

unconditional love, when you’ve carved the conditions

into my hand with a quill, every letter burning like

the cigar he pressed into my thigh. You slit a line

into my wrist and told me to sign, expecting me to

cry and obey and pretend you’re still my chosen

sister. I left the line blank and you squeezed

droplets of my blood onto your Crayola contract.

Do not call me your best friend when you

replaced me the second our beliefs differed.

All we have in common anymore is our last

name and a handful of hazy memories. The girl

you grew up with is dead, lungs full of dirty water

and lead, poisoned by promises you never intended

to keep in the first place. Take your prize, martyr,

and leave that bouquet of plastic flowers at her grave.