You were the life of every party
always up-to-date on every new joke.
We’d toast your manic goofy wit
silently, hypos upraised
before sending silver mosquitoes
I was the only one who ever heard you crying
late at night, in the bathroom,
before blindly stumbling off to bed
trying not to bleed on the carpet. You named
each miscarriage after a different Biblical martyr,
crossing out that character in the old family Bible
so you wouldn’t pick the same name twice.
You were the life of every party–
heroine made you one popular skeleton.
I’d sit as close to you as possible, happy
having a sister who wasn’t too cool
to hang out with a little kid.
I was the only one
who tried to help you, holding your bone-cold hand
tightly, watching bastard fetus number five
slip out and bless the white porcelain
crimson. I don’t remember what you named it.
You were the life of every party.
Your eulogy was comprised of
of your stupidest