I shouldn’t murder my sister
The imaginary one, of course
She was nice and we had great conversations
The white walls were always her inspiration
She would paint horses
Talking horses, at least that was my impression
They had verses around their mouths
I remember asking her if they could fly
She leant her head to the right
Like a painter
No, that is a cliche
It is enough that rhymes are hanging from their snort
And then, just then I killed her
I wasn’t furious or frustrated or anything
Only that her imagination was tight around my skin
Another finely honed exposition of existential dread, with a trope here from classic black and white Hitchcock,another trope there from “Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?” ,The reader winds up successfully gaslighted by the author,
Thank you, Louis Kasatkin!!! Your comments are like a fiesta to me!!!
This verse is like a verbal dessert to my inner being.The imagery painted is nothing less than a masterpiece. If only I was a painter I would have loved to paint the thoughts.
Thank you, thank you, thank you so much, Nalini!
❤️