The Locksmith’s Sister

The Locksmith’s Sister

The bitch was never good enough for my brother,

she walked through doors she did not own,

her hands always reaching for locks

that belonged to someone else,

her smile sharper than any key,

her eyes always searching for openings

where none were meant to be.

Her laugh echoed too loud in the wrong rooms,

her voice a reminder of everything she wanted

but could never keep.

He turned away quietly,

leaving her with the metal taste of disappointment,

the weight of doors she would never open.

She was the locksmith’s sister,

as if that made her untouchable,

as if a name could grant her entry

to places he had already sealed in his heart.

She did not see the doors closing

behind her every attempt,

or the locks that were already his to hold.

She knocked, tried to push past walls,

leaning into thresholds with hope

that had grown brittle over years,

but he had learned to keep doors closed,

to let only the right hands in,

and hers were never right.

The streets whispered her name at night,

mocking her like a key that would not fit,

her shadow bouncing off walls

where she thought she belonged.

He walked past without a glance,

leaving her outside, searching,

never realising she had already lost,

and never would understand the weight

of doors meant for another.

Her world was a hallway of wrong turns,

each corridor echoing her own mistakes,

the sound of locks snapping quietly

as opportunities passed like ghosts.

She reached for him once, twice, a hundred times,

but his heart was a room with no windows,

no light, no invitation,

just silence and the sound of a lock turning.

And in the end, she stood alone,

the locksmith’s sister, keyless,

hands trembling, eyes burning,

the truth falling slowly into her chest:

he had never needed her,

and the doors she chased

had never been hers to open.