eldest daughter

growing up as the eldest daughter,

I discovered a few things through the chaos,

first,

that my voice would rise,

and strike the air

then eventually come back,

sharp as it had left

second,

the day I was born,

was last time,

I would come first

growing up as the eldest daughter,

I knew in a deafening silence,

first,

leaving was a door,

I could open,

but never truly walk through

second,

love meant standing guard,

hands over-stretched,

over things that were never mine to protect

growing up as the eldest daughter,

I learned what to love,

first,

the rare moments,

of my father's sobriety,

a glass that might shatter if named

second,

the sound of the door closing,

when my mother left,

no grief,

no sadness,

just something softer,

an understanding,

that there was no air,

in that room,

for her to breathe