​She spoke quietly and tiptoed around the subject.  I had a tendency to yell, though I wasn’t angry.  Just emotion deaf.  Mostly one word sentences, four to five letters at most. I demanded, in not so many words, what she wanted.  She asked me to sit.  I crossed my arms instead.  Her head swayed.  She looked at the floor.  My eyes began to wander.  Her eyes began to water.

We were both searching for a map to use.  The carpet carved canyons based on how she moved her feet; new twists and turns made with every gaze averted.
​
I cried when she told me.  Not right away, but I cried.  Hating life must be hereditary. She told me what you did inside your room, and what you did after you could no longer borrow happiness.

You played your wrists like a violin. A melancholy tune that still haunts me, though you never knew I heard it. A song with no lyrics.  Yours was a siren’s call. I still hear the waves crashing over that room.

I stood outside your door on nights you went to sleep early.  Which was often when you never woke.  I chained myself to the rocks on your shore, hoping some of your waves would roll over me instead.

You didn't worry of what came after death. But you never thought of what came after you. You could finally fly free, you claimed, but I was still shackled to your pain.  I, Andromeda, watched you pluck every feather off Pegasus.  

But that’s ok; I was Cetus too.

You used to soar.  The sun filled your face with warmth.  I loved watching your cheeks turn red, but you grew tired of holding your breath.  The air was too thin above the clouds.  

I understand now why I had to spend all that time pushing on your chest.

I thought I could show you how to breathe.  It was easy for me; just needed to teach you how to scream. But your quiet frame could barely muster a whimper; you didn’t want to be a bother.

It’s alright. I guess I didn’t want to be a brother. I know I tried to shake you, when I should have tried to hold you. But my fists were clenched, fighting myself, unable to know how to accept your cries for help.  I was chained!  And you were free.  What could I offer that you couldn’t offer me?

Your love letters, addressed “Fuck you" and “I'm sorry,” were crumpled and used as kindling for a fire that I hoped would evaporate your ocean.

But it just boiled. I screamed from the shore as the storms hit, certain I could shout down tempestuous winds.  Certain I could stop the wind that pushed those waves into you.

I never considered I was the wind.