Little

It's November, your birthday.
You're two years old. My arm,
outstretched in pride and love,
rests on the back of your chair.
You stare, grinning, into the camera.

Big blue eyes and blonde hair pair us together.
You have a little face, little hands, little idea

of what is to come, beyond sweet cake,

presents, and song. You know all the words.

You'll always be judged by your intelligence.

We always fight for control- you made me so mad.
But you're smart, and strong, and I'm so proud
to be your sister. I feel like I left you all alone
to fight Mom and Dad by yourself, with little fists.
I'll always want to protect you more than I want to be right.
Why aren't we friends?