Doubts seep into my mind,

the winter lands; the whirlwind I whisked up, is it enough-- does it make sense?

My sister says I live in my own ice castle, 

My sister says I'm no better than she, 

it's only me who sees the incoming slap within her smile, 

it's only me who feels the knife prodding at the edge of my ribs,

not her fault; unconsciously rude--whatever.

It doesn't change the hours of my life, 

doesn't change the dreams I have, 

doesn't change my work, 

but it does. 

Wishes don't come true? 

Then I'll wish I'll never ever earn a living, 

I'll wish I end up sitting below a bridge on a soggy cardboard box;

I'll wish to be angry all the time, 

and it still, all crashes down on me, 

little waves make tsunamis, 

little tears make lakes,

and death brings about life.

Yet my hours, 

my tears,

my life,

my sweat.

It dried up before I could even turn my head,

my world suffocated by a few words and a smile of my sister's 

I reap what I sow?

I should have gotten something by now then, 

even if it were some rotten beans, 

even if it were the light, fluffy cotton balls blown across the city during summer,

it would have been better. 

I would have seen something, 

a glimpse-- maybe a grasp of where I put all my life into,

instead, I've been throwing it all into an empty vacuum. 

A void, I can't even see my own reflection.

At the strike of lightning;

thunder;

and the rain rolls by, washing all the pain off the surface.

Buried doesn't mean forgotten; out of sight isn't necessarily out of mind

but how do I forget something that wasn't there; how do I see the non-existant

I don't.

These threads come in waves, their words pounding into my head, 

I feel them.

Their pain, 

their life,

their words, 

they speak to me. 

Each one, 

alive,

warm,

awake,

they breathe life into my eyes and purpose into my arms;

they are my voices, just waiting to be heard,