noceur; shelby

My mother asks me why I have not been sleeping, why she can hear her daughter having one-sided conversations in the early hours of a morning that should not be spent awake.

I tell her that these early mornings, when night breaks the barrier of a star-studded canvas, these are the times when my sister once again finds her voice.

These are the times when my sister tells the greatest stories; becomes the anonymous author whose voice trails behind on the pages long after the ink has faded.

She tells me stories of a world that is not wasting away, tales of a world bathed in night but never dark—she tells me of her paradise.

I long to see the same world as her, for there is nothing left to be found in the space between dusk and dawn— the horizon is no longer a separation of heaven and hell but a blurred line through which the colors blur.

The sunrise is no longer beautiful.

I tried to paint my own sunrise when I came to accept the fact that my sister was no grace risen, no false identity, no martyr hanging for the cause— I painted my skin in every shade of red, yellow, and pink that I could find and though it burned the same as the sunrise, it was not beautiful.

I looked for grace in hollow bones; I tried to find love in cracked ribs— what does this broken body have left for me to find?

My mother tells me that I have grown quieter. I tell her that I am smaller— that this body of mine allows only for the space of two minutes time wasted in conversation.

I used to speak my mind freely— my body could then absorb the shock of words shot in my direction from the barrel of a lead tongue, but now I am afraid that my bones will shatter on impact.

Snapped in half like the horizon— it would not be the type of burning that is beautiful. Instead, it would be a battleground, bloody and burdening to whoever was left to find the carnage.

I know which battles are mine to fight now— any that involve this body as a line of defense are for an army not of my own.

My sister fought the longest war; waved the white flag of surrender when no one was around to take notice of the call and fell with it still in hand. She was an advocate for independent infantry; she would strike the match and shoot the gun and bring home battle scars on her palms like she was on an upward trip through the ranks.

My sister commanded the army and buried the dead with the same two hands that could not stop shaking when she saw the sunrise.

I told her she was beautiful; she told me she was burning.

And when I told her that there was no distinction to be made, she showed me the glass shards and the burn marks, showed me our reflection in the former and our scars in the latter— she took my palm and pressed her thumb against it until it went white and reminded me that self-hatred and serenity were not synonymous.

I never told her she was beautiful after that.

But still I asked her to watch the sunrise with me so that I could see the burn of new light upon pale skin; see color illuminate her world of black and white.

How she waved the flag of surrender before the war had even begun.

What’s a gunshot to a girl in a coffin?

I pray she cannot see whose finger is on the trigger; pray she cannot differentiate between the bullets and the blanks.

What’s another surrender to the sinner?

I do not pray to gods in the dead of night but rather her gravestone; I can only place my faith in that which can be seen, remembered, forgotten.

I will not forget the sight of her hands trembling in the same way in which I will not forget seeing her fall.

She reminds me tonight that suicide and serenity are not the same thing.

The stories tonight are not set in the past, but rather the seconds that linger in front of my fingertips like transactions still in progress— she presses her thumb to my palms until they turn white and reminds me how it feels to burn.

She asks me if I would ever like to hear another story of skylines not of our own, of horizons broken and white flags waved but not raised.

When I tell her yes, she tells me to take my finger off the trigger, tells me a gunshot still rings the ears of a dead girl— she does not want to wave the flag of a surrender because I cannot do so for myself.

I unload the bullets as she begins, “There is a city where—”

My mother asks me why I have not been sleeping, why I spend the early hours of morning having one-sided conversations with the wall.

I do not tell her that my sister has found her voice in the space the broken window has left behind; do not tell her that I see surrender and serenity in the same seconds when she tells me stories of a home that is not here.

My mother tells me that I am just like my sister in the seconds before the sky fell.

I forget to mention to her that beautiful and burning are ideas that I still cannot separate.