"Mother's don't have favorites," they said.

They lied, because mine did. 

I see her in my dreams, the two of us dancing in the trees. Her good attention made me excited, like a little girl on a shopping spree. 

Yet, no matter how much I loved her, she never love me.

She caused me pain, but I let it go. I let her give me new insecurities, day by day, I let them grow. 

I let her paint on my blank canvas, destroying me. It hurt, but I held it together like a beautiful piece of Frida Kahlo art. 

She loved my sister more than me, and honestly, how couldn't she?

My sister was prettier than a freshly bloomed Dogwood tree. Her voice sounded like sweet buzzing honeybees... and then there was me. The wasp of the family tree. I lay in bed wondering why.  

I was insightful, a survivor I would be. Like the flower off the stem, breaking at the heart. 

Right from the start, all I wanted was to forever dance in the trees with her. 

But even without her, I am prettier than a piece of Frida Kahlo art.