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.
