I don't remember what your voice sounded like, princess. I remember more of your friends than I do of you. I have no singular event to exactly remember you. Step for step; eyelash to lipstick; '80s earrings, and clothing. I'm bigger than you, I've out-lived you, princess. I've tried to fit into that flower dress for three years, since mom found it. It has never fit well, and I don't think I could get into it now. I'm taller, because I'm a lot more willowy than you were. Then, I don't have a memory of whether you were ungodly thin, or average.
The only vivid memory I have of you, princess, is the beads. The time mom told me to go look and see if everyone was smoking in there. I knocked on the door, and you all were. You ran over to me and pushed me through the beads in front of the entrance way of the room. I was a fucking three year old, and I was being abused. Even mom said I was almost completely neglected when I was little. I came back to mom in her rocking chair, I think with cigarette in hand. I don't remember if I was crying, I just remember telling mom that she pushed me out of the door. I don't remember being comforted, I remember being nodded at. Pushed aside like some smoke, or some brush.
I was reading about Carl Rogers (I think), who believed that when you're little, you figure out what people think is good and bad, by how your parents react to what you do. I must've done something really wrong to have always felt this bad.