The Game

Those women
dressed in the comfort
of white and
pastels
with soft shoes-
I used
to watch them
come and go
holding my sister’s
life in their hands
the silent sounds
of sterile.
I slept sideways
at the bottom
of her bed, because
all the chairs were taken
and since I was the smallest,
I used to fill the
empty, plastic
syringe
with water,
and turning my forearm,
try to find a vein-
my toys,
when death was just a game.

Indian Giver

She tries talking me
out of my daily
suicides­-
off the ledge
that continuously
calls my name.
She takes my
words from me,
and gives them back-
re-wrapped.
I call her
Indian giver
and she smiles-
knowing
how much
we both
need to
believe
our words
matter.