Tuesday, October 30, 2012


What kind of flower child did you turn into?
I should have known in middle school
when you told me you wanted to name your kids
after paint colors: Alizarin, Cerulean, Thalo, etc. -
I thought you were nuts but too pretty
to abandon to yourself. And that's the problem.

Everthing has to be beautiful for you. It would be easier
if you judged beauty by perfection or expense
but you loved your grandmother's cheap thing more than my 
eighteen-carat bling, you called it. It has original beauty,
it's lovely because it's ordinary and unexciting," which makes me wonder
about me. What I'd give to know if you loved me for my unexciting nose.

You're lucky I don't have allergies. I'm patient but not -
that - bush on my desktop, too. Not another bird. You hush me:
he's sleeping! I only just got him to eat. For the life of me I can't
see beauty in that naked gangly thing. Or take

the way you leave pastries and notes for everyone in the office. Won't let me
complain about anyone, because everyone's 
special and unique and     beautiful,
and they have hard days too. I started throwing thank-yous out 
before you saw them but nothing daunted you, until this.

How you asked me meekly to open the blinds I can't forget. You never
sighed before, for yourself, but you're wan now and wilted and I can't
remember all the plants but you don't seem to care that Ruby died.
What's the point of life if I can't do something beautiful?

But that's not right. Since the day you were born your face lit up the room
and you weren't even trying.

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