She shows up uninvited, not quite a friend,
knows where I keep the spare key,
just reaches for the door frame and lets herself in.
She rifles through my cupboards, forgets to wash
the dishes, leaves nothing for me.
You know how a CD skips and skips and
sort of sounds sorry but really isn’t? She can’t help it,
she says. And don’t I love her anyway,
how familiar her imprint in my sheets, how
after a while, I tune out her breathing like it is my own,
have stopped registering that she is not, in fact, me --
that it was not me who broke the glass
and left the shards for hours, not me
who used the unpaid bills as coasters, who is unrepentant.
She is the broken spot on my showerhead, she drips and drips,
fills my ears. I hang up the towel,
catch a glimpse of myself in the fogged mirror
and see her, this sister not sister,
this heavy ghost,
this me, not me, not me.