You probably

don’t know this

but I have a twin –

She’s the one

who writes the poems

and passes them off

as mine.

When we were young

I’d try

to reason with her,

make her behave

like you

and me,

but she’d sneak out at night, and write

terrible things.

Mornings sometimes

I’d find the evidence

on the floor between our beds

I’d hide them before

Mom would come in

But it would be too late

to put them back. Too late

to pretend

they didn’t exist

too late to negate

the terrible devastation.

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