[P] a lousy bunch

[Adonai]

try as much as possible to be wholly alive with all your might—you will be dead soon enough.

❦

T

here is nothing to covet about being the first.

There is nothing to covet, because I cannot even speak this truth without inciting a curl of self-hatred to curdle in my chest. How easily I rest upon this bed of privilege. To complain about anything in my life, I know, is as tasteless an act as the rich man scrounging for the sympathy of the poor man. It is hypocrisy; sadism on a teaspoon; begging, simply to know how it feels.

It is why I wear my piety like a noose around my neck: for a god born from Chaos and Time cannot possibly find me guilty of hubris.

But my siblings can. Hagar can. And because I am the first, the eldest, the proudest, the weakest, I have nothing to say in my defense. The shadow I cast from my marble pedestal will always devour the best parts of them. They will always hate me a little more than they love me, and I will always forgive them of this.

In benevolence, I am absolved of guilt.

"Great, I'll come with you. It's been so long since I've heard you play," Hagar says, and even in affront her voice is the loveliest of us all, her smile as bright as morning. My back brushes up against the low plinth of a rearing statue as I breathe out evenly, my surprise worn with an edge of caution. I am reminded of how my sister with the snake charmer's tongue hides her hurt in the melody of her voice. I know I have hurt her; I have yet to know how to feel about it.

Yet—"Of course. I am glad for company," I nod, and there is no longer any frigidity in my tone. Clutching to bitterness exhausts me; I envy those who are built to coexist with it. I had never expected an apology and, in truth, if I had received one I wouldn't have known how to respond. She wouldn't have meant it—I wouldn't have believed her. 

It is the same reason why I will never ask her twin, who she loves more than anyone, the one question that splits us like a chasm.

I make for the door leading out to our terrace, the one hemmed in by a wall of white azaleas. My lyre hums by my side, eager to be given life. "You can request a song," I say to Hagar, glancing back to see if she is following. "There are some from our childhood I no longer remember, but—I'll improvise." 

And improvise, and improvise. 

@Hagar