Under the Wallpaper

I was only granted the chance to sleep
on the top bunk
when the second eldest of all girls
left for Greensboro College,
and my twin moved into her room,
where the newly plain walls smelled
of Pear Glacé,
a heavy lotion I’d steal
and lather over my legs,
stretched across celadon carpet
that reeked of sneakers worn without socks.

I worry about my memory,
lost inside dozens of plastic CD cases.
I’d play Mariah’s Butterfly and read
the lyrics from the insert,
learning words like
nonchalant, wayward, inherently,
studying the ripples of honey-colored hair
and the comic arch of her brow,
as if I might someday inhabit it.

“Stop doing that thing with your voice.
That drop. Stop it,” Mandy would say.

I would see things in the darkness,
beneath the covers of that top bunk—
a demon’s jet-black wing,
glinting from Henry’s moon,
oozing out of the wallpaper,
slicing through a ballerina’s pale yellow tutu.
And I’d stare, unfazed, trying to recall
what lie I told to conjure such a mirage.

You’re sneaky.
You’re sneaky.
You’re sneaky.

I learned I was a good girl
when you pitted us against one another.
But I was sneaky.

(Daily Writing 075)