My Twin in the Pink Sheets

Salt trickles down
nine-year-old wood 
and floods the room
and drowns the cries
heard through the walls but 
muffled by voices
of disdain and dismissal. 
 
Make the bed
for the girl tucked in,
to lie there,
to rot there, 
and whisper underneath
to the monster that lurks
and meets her dreary eyes.
 
Grasping the hem
of slippery fabric 
laced with loose thread,
to fall toward a broken mirror 
that cuts deep, spills blood
and lies forgotten on the ground 
in a house, but never a home. 
 
Was there ever a sign
in the slamming of doors,
in the dismantled doll
heads rolling, 
or in the small bruises 
that lined the legs
of the bed—or the girl? 
 
Don’t forget when
nine years later, the sheets  
hold no comfort
to stop the pounding inside,
and pillows won’t muffle 
what was never heard 
in the scream-soaked wood.