Death becomes her

My brother called just as i was about to leave the apartment.

“you want the good news or the bad news”


oh no. in this family i was use to recieving bad news. the good news rarely came.

“the good news”

“I love you”

my brother never says i love you. thats not exactly good news.

“ok. how bad is the bad news?”

“theres only two of us left”

which meant. my sister was dead. which meant my last words to her were through a text message and she said “k thanks”. The relationship i had wiht my sister was next to nothing. We spoke only in passing to find out the whereabouts of our parents or to maybe borrow a clothing item occasionally. From the years of drug addiction and overdoses my sister ceased to exist long ago. But still, she was my Sister. The only sister I had. The only sister I clung to. And now shes dead. finally finally resting in peace. i guess. Where do we go when we die? A better place I hope. Only in death do i struggle to believe in an afterlife. To give my mind some peace.

After my brother said that i wailed. I screamed Nooooooooooooooo and Whyyyyyyyyyyyy as if that could change anything or give me some answer. My mind faught with questions and embarrassment and sadness. Not too long ago my brother died.

My brother had been sexually abused by a neighbor when we were kids. and he in turn sexually abused my sister. I cant say for sure this caused their death, but I think its something they struggled with their entire short lives. They both abused drugs and seemed to forget that life has an existence outside the realm of alcochol and drugs. A few days ago, walking along the streets of new york, a city of which both my sister and my brother had never had a chance to see, I said to my boyfriend “I wish my sister were normal”. But now. I just wish she were alive. As if we had any chance in hell at having normalcy. I small part of me hoped for weddings and babies with her. But i knew that was just a dream. And like so many dreams, it will never come true.

A sister is someone that you can fight with one day and tell your inner most secrets to the next. Here I am, in Gotham city, and my sister is dead. I knew this day was coming. But it was 4 years ago when I walked in a fog awaiting her death. Her suicidal tendancies were more frequent then. Slitting her wrists and overdoses, but just never quite able to reach death. She was the epitomy of living to die. Is that how the saying goes? What she was doing was not living. It was more closely waiting to die. But I will never know just went on in her head. There are a few precious moments I can hold onto that I had sitting with her talking, usually over a ciggarette.

Life is not fair. its not.

Shiny happy people can go to hell.

In my grief I took a walk to the museum. I had to keep to schedule. Stay on top of things. Not let myself slide into an abyss of sadness.

Here is what I curated from Moma

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