By Breannah Holton.
I hear murmurs, my sister speaks in her sleep now,
not eloquently nor coherently, more like a struggle to form a word but I know,
it’s like a sister code, that only I, not just I, but me and her and my other sister know,
if you listen closely, you’ll hear not breathing but steam blowing through their nose,
with eyes closed and heads bowed rest makes pain appear peaceful now, but I know,
bed creaks as though sighs and vengeful resolves all at once,
unlike God they do keep record of wrong.
They can’t help what they are.
Forgive them while they sleep for they know not what they do, but I know,
and they can’t sleep, so maybe they do too.
Featured Image: Hilal Özkanli