Tell Me I'm Wrong

 

But the thing is...

Siblings don’t stare at each other like that in the dark.

Don’t accidentally fall asleep on the same pillow and wake up wishing they hadn’t.

There were nights I prayed the feeling would go away.

That the love would shrink into something godly, respectable, explainable.

But it never did.

You kissed me once.

Under the jacaranda tree where no one could see.

And said, “Tell me I’m wrong.”

But I couldn’t.

After that, you grew cold.

Not angry. Just... distant.

Like you were burying something holy.

Because it didn’t fit the language people gave it.

You started dating a guy from church.

And I clapped like a sibling should, a 'brother' should.

But my hands bled, quietly; in my pocket.

Years passed.

You married him.

And when I stood beside you in a tuxedo.

Everyone said, “That’s his adopted sister.”

I smiled. And swallowed the truth again.

© amimoh_ombogo