My big sister said she wants to be more like me.
A bigger voice.
A taller presence.
Sis, don’t discount what it took to get me here. And don’t write off the agony you endured being completely broken down only to be rebuilt to his exact likings. Not to compare or put levels on life’s bullshit, but your story is harder than mine to tell. When you have a boy disguised as man telling you how to dress, talk and stand for what seemed like a century, the aftertaste is unpalatable. And not just for you.
You’ve been choked out of an opinion.
Slapped into silence.
Threatened to oblige.
I witnessed your admirable strength and confidence whittle to meekness, insecurities, constant apologies. You became unrecognizable. With a knotted brow, stomach and spirit, I waited for you to get out in few enough pieces to be repaired.
And you did.
Some of that weight can never be shed, but I promise you, big sis, you did your sisterly duty of showing me how to dust off the debris when your life imploded. You showed me how to persevere after wickedness destroyed the old you. If nothing else, I learned—from you—to recognize, speak up and walk away from harm or the threat of it. I wish I were more like you, as a matter of fact—with your long patience and disregard for time on warm, sunny days. You are just like me though, big sister, with just as big of a voice that speaks a little quieter. And just as tall of a presence (if not taller), albeit a bit more reserved.
I mean just look at you! Living! You don’t need to speak up, big sis.
I hear you. I see you. I am you.