Read Online The Lonely Ones by Kelsey Sutton - Free Book Online Page A

been ripped out.
    I don’t know why
    people call it heartbreak
    when there’s nothing left
    to crack.

Brother
    I stay in bed all day,
    replaying the scene with
    Matthew and Mary
    over and over
    in my mind.
    At dusk
    a time of yellowness
    and tears
    someone fills the doorway.
    My heart becomes a star,
    soaring bright with hope.
    Maybe Matthew has realized
    his true feelings
    for me.
    When I see it’s only Tyler,
    my heart falls,
    crashes to the Earth
    in a blend of dirt and fire.
    He shoves his hands
    in his pockets
    looks at his feet
    clears his throat.
    I hug my pillow,
    wait for his
I told you so
,
    but my older brother has never
    been a boy of many words.
    Instead
    Tyler sits on the bed,
    stays with me
    even when the sun is gone.

Promises
    Voices drift down the hallway;
    I hear my name.
    My mind is consumed
    by ugly truths,
    painful memories of
    sickly sweet drinks
    swollen lips
    averting gazes.
    Ignoring my family,
    I lie in bed,
    face turned
    to the window.
    I hear her enter softly,
    close my eyes,
    pretend to sleep.
    Dana kneels,
    touches my hand.
    When I don’t answer,
    she makes another promise.
    This time she vows
    to be a better sister.
    I almost open my eyes,
    tell her I never wanted
    a better sister.
    I just wanted her.

Unknown
    Monday morning,
    a familiar head of hair appears
    at the far end of the hall.
    I wave,
    want to thank her for helping
    me at Mary’s party,
    but she avoids my gaze,
    rushes past.
    There’s something
    in the hunch of her shoulders,
    the lines around her mouth
    that I have never seen before.
    I think about it in class
    at the quarry
    on the walk home.
    It isn’t until the sun sinks
    that I comprehend
    the look on her face,
    but it’s one I don’t understand.
    Guilt.

Messages
    When I get home from school,
    the carpet
    is covered in snowflakes.
    There is something familiar about them,
    but I don’t realize what it is
    until I see my brother on the couch,
    scissors in his hand.
    He has
    folded and sliced
    my stories
    into winter.
    â€œNo, Peter!” I cry,
    yank the scissors
    from his grasp.
    He yells at me
    and I yell back.
    Mom soon appears,
    demanding silence
    so she can sleep
    before her shift.
    I scoop up scraps of paper,
    flee.
    Snowflakes trail behind me,
    flutter to the floor,
    realer than the threat of winter,
    and I feel my lip tremble.
    The words
    are cut up beyond repair,
    no hope
    of putting them back.
    I place my hand
    against the frost-covered window,
    ask the monsters
    to come back to me.
    Then I crawl
    into bed.

Return
    Claws scrape
    against my windowsill.
    Then, a voice,
    raspy, childlike, familiar.
    By the time I reach the window,
    grateful tears
    stream down my face,
    make everything hazy.
    They know
    about Matthew.
    â€œWe’ll eat his flesh!”
    â€œSuck the marrow from his bones!”
    â€œCarve out his eyes!”
    Smiling,
    I just shake my head.
    Then,
    as if no time at all has passed,
    we go outside,
    have grand adventures
    on the stars.
    Their laughter is loud,
    wind and magic endless,
    the moon beautifully bright.
    I try to enjoy
    our night in the sky,
    but I can’t stop myself
    from thinking about
    what and who
    I’ve left behind.

Gestures
    The moon watches
    as I return to my bed,
    curling beneath the blankets,
    hugging my pillow.
    There’s a crumpling sound,
    a gentle touch
    against my cheek.
    When I open my eyes
    I see Peter holding
    snowflakes,
    taped together
    into the shape of my stories.
    It’s a truce
    an apology
    a gift.
    I hug him so tightly
    it must hurt,
    but my brother
    doesn’t complain.

Up
    In the morning
    I open my eyes,
    and this time
    I keep them open.
    The world out there
    is so vast and unknown,
    but also smaller
    than I ever imagined.
    There is still a hole in my chest
    still a need to squint in the light
    still an instinct to bury myself under the covers.
    But I swing my legs
    to the side,
    stand anyway.

Warrior
    It is the last week of school
    before Thanksgiving