Summer

seven am was full of heartbreak.

you are eight years old.

you sit behind the oak door in an ivory nightgown your mother bought for you with weighted coins. your purple knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the grit that settled between the floorboards. you scrub relentlessly at the spaces between your bruised knuckles, biting your tongue in preventing your curiosity from escaping.

your eldest sister returns to the oak door in the birth of the new morning. her fingers shake as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more hesitant then the next. she reeks of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his bruises. her brilliant blue pools are darker, and a hand flutters to her throat when she notices her you on the floor.

"you can not be foolish, sister." she lectures, punctuated fingertips drifting to the curve of your plump, red cheek. "you must be prepared and you must always be brave."

eight pm is full of joy.

you are eleven years old.

you sit behind the oak door in a knitted, purple sweater your sister bought for you with weighted coins. your rosy knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the product of the pavements of the schoolyard. you scrub relentlessly at the faces of your blued fingernails, biting your tongue in preventing your opinions from escaping.

your second eldest sister returns to the oak door in the dead of the night. her fingers are confident and brash as they grip the foundation of the door frame, each movement more erratic then the next. she radiates the perfume of sex and sin, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his shadows of his fingers. her brilliant green pools are overjoyed, and a hand flutters to her stomach when she notices you on the floor.

"you must be agreeable, sister." she sings, brash fingertips floating to the hollow of your thick, shortened neck. "you must be happy and you must always do as your told."

twelve pm is full of content.

you are fifteen years old.

you sit behind the oak door in an oversized, army jacket you bought for yourself with weighted coins. your grayed knees are crossed, your bare feet dirty with the nights spent within the hearth of the store. you scrub relentlessly at the lines that decorate your hands, biting your tongue in preventing your anger from escaping.

your third eldest sister returns to the oak door in the refreshing daze of afternoon. her fingers are quiet and careful as they caress the foundation of the door frame, each movement more placid then the next. she releases the accessory of sex and love, the span of her ivory skin decorated with his kisses. her brilliant chocolate pools are calm, and a hand flutters to her heart when she notices you on the floor.
"you are perfect, sister." she murmurs, delicate fingertips floating to the dimple of your forehead. "you must be patient and it will find you. and it will not be selfish, or cruel."