Feelings

My cheeks felt hot

as blood rushed to my face,

partly due to embarrassment,

and partly wine.

You flashed me your phone,

asking me what this was,

and I looked at the screen

with genuine curiosity.

I saw the message,

asking if you knew that you

made your sister, me,

cry, earlier this evening.

I kept this facade, mimicking

a Victorian angel,

seeking refuge in my room

when you’d been too abrupt,

and judged my evening hosting

for not being hospitable enough.

I’ve been living without my litter,

a former rabbit, slowly peeking

from my warm nest,

burrow not to your standard,

walls too thin, disorganized,

unkempt.

Feast of flora set before you, 

lacking fauna

you so crave.

You have upset me often, lately.

I keep it to myself,

buried like a secret,

in a hovel full of trinkets,

half-dried flowers, 

and fluff.

Now, uncovered, 

I uncomfortably stand,

admitting that, yes, 

your demeanor, mean,

your bite, not playful,

and I recoil to a position

where I simply say,

“I’m sorry.”

I apologize to you for being

cruel to me.

It’s easier this way, you see.

Easier than telling you,

the timing of your response,

the way you came 

to expose my feelings, 

in front of everyone, is unjust.

I just

wanted to tell someone

the truth because it eats me up

that you don’t want to see

how the energy you brought

into my household soured

everyone’s mood. 

We were laughing, and singing, 

before

you got there.

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