The way your chicken pox scar looks like my name, tattooed across your heart. I joke it’s intentional, you love me, can’t live without me. You roll your eyes in that tolerant language of sisterhood, because you know it’s true, in part. I joke about your tattoo, but then I went and got one too. Eternally shocked when expletives cross the threshold of your once-innocent lips. Did I do this to you? Were you sweet and whole and good, until my resistance wore you down? The rasp of over-washed fingers against my own, holds me steady, keeps us both in line. We walk down paths that don’t converge, but I’ll be damned if I’ll loosen this grip on you. I seek you out in the dark, hunt for your warmth, wrap you around me like a cloak of protection. I’m sure it’s supposed to be the other way around, but we’ve never been quite conventional, have we? Hand-me-ups and hand-me-downs, lives in flux. Did you shape me, or did I shape you?
If the name dies with us, just know:
We were the best iteration.
Alyssa (she/her) is a poet and healthcare professional living in the West Midlands with her two biggest fans, her partner Joel, and her miniature black panther Jiji. Her work has appeared in On Your Doorstep, Dawntreader, and Free the Verse, with her debut performance taking place at the 2022 Wolverhampton Literature Festival. The achievement she's most proud of though? Her pancake recipe. It's the best. You don't even know.
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