Her Pain in Porcelain

The air is cold, damp from the recent rain;
dew lay still on the green blades of grass lining the walkway.
Wrapped in my brown sweats and warm boots
I take a deep breath, close my eyes and can feel the dawning sun.

The wind is fierce and howls in ominous glory.
I fasten my armor of patience and strength,
I open the door knowing exactly what could be;
know that this time could be the last.

She turns to me and pretends to acknowledge my presence.
I walk in and set down my bags; I am home.
My sister is bloated, frustrated, and alone,
she has eaten more than she can afford to bear.

My baby sister is in pain and I can do nothing.
I can only watch her early moments, time slowing in obsession.
She holds back tears; her infatuation with silent self-mutilation.
Binging now and inevitably to purge just once more.

It is these moments I find myself battling,
I am fighting her, begging her to stay in the moment,
"Stay with me! Don't give in!"
The murky waters of the porcelain fixture down the hall
get the love I wish I could hold in my arms.

Instead she grasps the side of the hard edges
leans her head into the darkness
slowly regurgitating her insecurities,
throwing her anxiousness into the drain of pity.

I pound on the door in desperation,
my scream only echoes in her dream.
My pleas silenced by the lock of a door
and the sound of running water.

My beautiful sister
classically mesmerizing, an old soul,
with eyes the color of the tormented sea,
with soft brown hair that seems to fall so perfectly.

Her childish laugh overshadowed now
as the porcelain overwhelms her.
Flushing away her hopes of healing
never to be plunged back to existence.

My sweet young sister, slowly becoming hollow and cold
just like the object she grasps in grief.
She is simply washed away in a bathroom
and I always seem to enter a moment too late.


By Natalie Bennett