I Can be Stronger on The Inside

Sitting at the verge of tears for fear or concern or maybe general loneliness. My throat sore, raw, and scratchy with acid. sympathetic to her retching. "twin connection" i think, slightly amused. My back is tired and my legs more so. Work tomorrow and the day after and the day after. Endless games.

She stumble-bumbled in half awake and half sick her breath so thick with alcohol i began to gag. Her stories were large but not bigger than truth and a small part of me missed freedom. I thought of the tears i laughed hours previous and wonder why we stayed home all night. There's a welt on her forehead and the thought scares me more than i'm angry. She limps and staggers and not only because she's intoxicated. It's here i see her misery the loneliness she can't bear, the strength it hurts to hold.

My dog lays silent and patient, being good for once, just watching and waiting, i pat her head each time i walk by. "Everythign ok?" her eyes ask me or maybe that's just the look she was born with. Maybe this is the role i've been meant to play.

I rub her back as she vomits over and over until there's nothign left and i see little bits of red. I want to cry at the thought. but who cries over drunk sisters? that's ridiculous. Her hair is a mess and the water tastes like lead, i wonder if it will sink into her stomach to mix with the booze.

Adam has his art and me when he grows tired of it. But i guess it's my own fault to have such late night heartache. It's better for me to deal alone, in the quiet night and gallop of my typing.

She apologizes over and over, but not like i did the night it hurt too much to love and i thought that i could find company and you in the bottom of that bottle. She insists that i shouldn't watch and when her head hits the wall again i wince and try to pick her up.

I guess it's now i wished i took a PE when my arms are too weak and my own body too frail. I want to whisper that i can be stronger on the inside, that i'll always be here to pick her up, to carry her off, to tuck her in, and walk away silently.

Her shirt grows wet with thrown water and damp towels and instead of taking it off she leaves it. I know it grows cold at night, i'm the only one awake then, and change her myself. She's sick and poisoned and i know she needs something, something i can't provide and all i can do is glance at my reflection in the mirror and wonder when i became this, when i grew to accept complacency.

I want to whisper my words to her, their meanings, hoping they'll keep her warm at night and shield her from harshness come dawn. Instead i open the blanket and fold it beneath her. Instead i shut the blinds and hope there's quiet. Instead i find a bag, double it, get the towel, fold it.

Instead I walk away slowly in the fashion i always walk away.