One of my siblings is a tech nerd, the other a genius.

One was a fire, the other a stream.

In the night I’d wake to music and the sounds of the snoring.

The image drawn in my sketchbook is one of what we could be.

One of my parents was a gong, the other a bee I took care of,

convinced it was exhausted from a day’s work.

One of my parents I hid, the other I ran to.

In the revolving door of my becoming, the gong was deafening,

the stream silent, afraid of becoming a tsunami one day

and burying the gong beneath the water.

One sibling was resilient, the other silent; how they amused each other.

One was a genius, the other an engine.

I was ashamed of not understanding, embarrassed I couldn’t be the same.

I was a girl calling in the night to the moon, wondering who I am.