It has been raining since 2 PM today. And she has not stopped crying. If “love” is synonymous with “tears”, then Mom should buy more tissues from Costco. She cried when she didn’t have him, when she was drowned in him, when she was dumped by him. Dumped. As if he took a s*** on her.

I sleep on the top bunk, and even with all the blankets and pillows and mattress between us, I can’t fall asleep. I lose track of the sheep and how many hours she’s been at it. In the morning, Harris asks me what’s wrong and pokes the bags under my eyes. I answer with a yawn. If I could lend him out to her, I would. But that is wrong. I don’t prostitute my own boyfriend. Human trafficking is bad. She thinks Harris is too ugly anyways.

I’ve taken to listening to Coldplay. I’m starting tonight. I’m feeling sleepy already. I wake up with Chris Martin under my tongue.

“Am I a part of the cure, or am I part of the disease?”

She eats a lot now. I looked forward to chocolate ice cream the other day and instead, found her in front of “Friends” with Hagen Daaz between her legs. She spent lots of time in the bathroom afterwards. It’s all those mirrors. She should stop weighing herself.

She’s no longer crying these nights. Well, actually I wouldn’t know. She doesn’t sleep with me anymore. I find the bottom bunk empty. I love Coldplay still.

I get up to pee at 4 AM. There’s a girl lingering under the streetlight on the corner of my street. She is wearing pajamas and bad hair. She smokes. My sister hates cigarettes. When will she come home?