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To the first man my sister loves

Do you notice how beautiful she is?

And I don’t mean do you think she looks good in that dress with the heels that make her body flow like a smooth stream with every step she takes. What I mean is, do you notice how beautiful she is when she has just woken up?

When the sheets are still tangled up in her legs, her hair still matted to the pillow, drool hanging from her lips and soft snores tumbling along with her morning breath.

Do you notice how when she smiles it never quite makes it to her eyes when she’s with strangers because a part of her is still afraid, just as she was when she was fifteen, to show her teeth.

Do you notice her sarcastic remarks and witty humour that others take for granted but that helped me get through some nights where I felt like the world was pressing me into the dirt and there was no way out?

Do you notice that she only wears her glasses when she’s at home, because despite needing them to see she refuses to wear them in front of others?

Do you notice that she refuses to throw things out, that her wardrobe has never been clean, ever, but that buried within the piles in her room are a hundred of her possessions, things she’s treasured since she was three years old?

Do you notice the way she smiles with her teeth on full show when she’s with her family?

Do you notice the way she plays with her cousins for hours to give the adults some rest over Christmas?

Do you notice her fiery independence? Her it all work out in the end attitude? Her strength? Her courage? Her ability to see incredible things in herself when others attempt to tear her down?

Tell me you notice

Because if there is one thing I know for certain it is that my sister is more than what people see.

Inside that hard, sassy, boss ass bitch who knows what she’s doing so don’t you dare question it exterior is a little girl with a bob of curly hair twice as big as her head, who wore her mum’s boots around the house as if they were knee high stilettos.

Who used to sleep across the room from me in a bed with a pink doona cover, emblazoned with mini fake diamonds.

Who always stood up for me when I needed her support the most.

Who spent hours talking to me when the tears threatened to tear me apart.

Who I held, that night, back when she was fifteen, when the sobs ripped through her body to the point where she could no longer hide them, for hours, even though she still won’t tell me why.

I have seen her at her best, and I have seen her at her very worst and I know that she is better than a man who cannot see past the material things into her heart, which contrary to popular belief is not made of stone but instead of molten gold.

I have seen her stand tall and sadly I have too seen her fall but I know that she is worth more than a man who cannot see who she really is.

So, to the first man my sister loves, count yourself blessed.

My sister does not share around love for outsiders easily and her walls are higher than stone towers so you will have to work to get inside.

But it’s worth it.

Because she’s worth it.

And although I preach peace above all else I promise you this, if you break her heart. Be afraid.

Be wary around rooms with plastic sheeted floors, and tall buildings with no rails, watch out for dark tunnels and storm river drains. Because I will find you.

But I threaten in fear.

Afterall, she is my sister, the only one I will ever have and the idea, the mere thought of her in pain brings a sharpness to my throat.

Because I love her.

And I hope you love her too.

And I hope you notice all the little things, all her quirks, her attitude, her laugh, her voice as it belts along to the radio while she drives.

Because she is a diamond in a sea of smudged coal and you will only get one chance to be with someone as incredible as her.

So please, look after her, because she means the world to me.

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