The Pale Goth’s Sister Has Her Say During Thanksgiving Dinner

When you were born, 
 Mom cussed the nurses. 
 They were nuns.

It was a Catholic hospital.
 She swore at the nuns, for Chrissake.

 You’ve told me this before, sister:
 Mom thought the nurses
 swapped me with a changeling:
 ten pounds of thick, matted black hair;
 Oriental eyes; olive skin—Baby Genghis, you called me.
 Our usually holy mother screamed
 That’s not my baby!
 Where’s MY baby?
 That one’s NOT mine!
Our father acknowledged my newborn plight:
 She is a typical Ukrainian baby.

You always were a freak. Such a freak. All the time.

 I know.
 I know.
 Believe me,
 I know.
 And I’m “strange.”
 And I’m “weird.”
 And I’m
 any other mainstream adjective
 littering your puerile tongue,
 dear sister.

You’re nearly 30, and you’re not even married.
 At least I have a husband.

           I’m not sorry
           you were the popular one.
           I’m not sorry
           the boys found you the prettiest.
           I’m not sorry
           that in six months
           your husband will file for divorce
           because he doesn’t love the way
           you scream Stupid fucker!
           after he spent twelve hours
           working at the office, six days straight,
           so that he could pay your five-grand-plus
           credit card debt.

Why do you have to ruin everything?

           Because, my dear sister,
           I create disasters and dystopia
           easily. With my fingertips,
           I examine the rubble,
           finding shards
           you and everyone else
           wouldn’t bother
           searching for.