My Sister Is Still Breathing, But She’s Gone

I used to watch her brush her hair

In the mirror we shared when we were kids.

She smelled like coconut shampoo and bubble gum.

She’d sing along to the radio off-key

And laugh like nothing bad could ever touch us.

That girl is gone.

Now, when I see her,

Her hair is stringy.

Her arms are tired highways of lies.

And her eyes — God, her eyes —

Look like someone turned the lights off inside her soul

And walked away with the key.

She says,

“I’m okay.”

With trembling hands

And a sniff she thinks I don’t notice.

She says,

“I’ve got it under control.”

As if control looks like missing teeth,

Like nodding off mid-sentence,

Like stealing from your own mother

To feed the thing that’s eating you alive.

Heroin is the lover she never left.

It whispers things in her ear

That none of us can compete with.

It holds her when she’s sick,

Makes her promises,

Then rips her apart every time.

And still —

She goes back.

Do you know what it feels like

To mourn someone who’s still breathing?

To flinch every time the phone rings

Because this could be the call?

To Google “what does an overdose look like”

Because you want to be prepared

But you never will be?

I have prayed prayers

That sound more like begging.

I have screamed into pillows

Because screaming at her doesn’t work.

I have sat outside rehab centers

With hope in my throat

And left with silence in my chest.

She has died a thousand small deaths

And I have buried her a thousand times in my heart.

And still —

I love her.

God help me, I still love her.

I love the girl who once held my hand

When we were too scared to sleep alone.

I love the sister who used to write poetry

And leave it in my notebook like a secret gift.

I love the pieces of her still trapped

Under the ash of every burned bridge.

But love is not a cure.

Love is not Narcan.

Love is not enough

When the thing she craves more than life itself

Is the very thing killing her.

Some days, I imagine her sober.

I see her laugh again —

Really laugh.

Not that twitchy, jittery chuckle

That comes when she’s high.

I see her holding a job,

A coffee cup,

Maybe a baby.

I let myself believe she’ll make it.

Then she misses another birthday.

And I find another spoon.

And I brace myself

All over again.

If you’ve never loved an addict,

You don’t know what it’s like

To fear their freedom,

And also fear their arrest.

To be grateful they’re in jail

Because at least you know they’re not dead.

I ache in places I didn’t know could ache.

And still —

I will never stop hoping.

Because even though the world sees a junkie,

I still see my sister.

I still see that little girl

With coconut shampoo and bubble gum breath

Who used to sing like no one was listening.

And I pray—

That one day,

She’ll hear herself again,

And come back home.