Oldest Sister's Rule

She called. The phone felt

cold against my ear, its plastic shell

too light. She asked me how I've been,

then told me where I should have been.

Said, 'You're not a child.' As if

I didn't know. As if the rift

wasn't wide as all her good advice.

She gave me choices, twice.

Her voice, a file against a nail,

still sharp, still certain not to fail.

And my own thumb, I chipped it more,

pressing the receiver to the door

where my own voice used to hide.

I mumbled 'yeah,' or 'right,' inside

my head, still five, still small, still wrong.

A lifetime playing second song.