Brunch is just a fancy word for sleeping through your alarm clock

questioning again

if it’s easier to pretend

my glue isn’t peeling, or

that the cracking in me,

the attack of neuro bees,

is keeping me un-phased,

stoic-faced, taught to wear

resiliency in braided hair

sister has no help or answers,

she’s a ball of doubt half-heartedly

reading horoscopes aloud,

but they mean nothing to me

futures in newspapers

are gloom doomed and bleak

she says the comics aren’t funny,

but the fact that someone gets paid to write

what people think they want to read

every day is, and I smile for fear

she’ll expect me to say something

when the rustle of thin, grey paper

is itching my ears, and the longing

for the return of silence is deafening

I love her honesty, it carries me,

she grants inner wishes with sibling telepathy,

shuts up, swats a fly with the rolled up obituaries,

and leans her crown-heavy head on me