She’d walk across the shards of our broken hearts to escape her mother, but what does that make me? A sister? A friend? A victim?
Someone who tosses and turns in the calm of the night because I could never say that vanity and pride are different, that one can be proud without being vain, with a flare in my eyes rather than paranoia because the ghost of who I used to be still sinks its fangs into the base of my neck.
But who am I, anyways?
I’m someone thrown to the curb on the streets of Queens, among the trash and unpaid cellphone bills because messages of, “You’re too busy,” stack up until finally one of them says, “Goodbye”.