They named me Gemini. Single birth. I shouldn’t have been. I ate my sister; maybe ate is the wrong term, absorbed. Too comic book. Dissolved… Sounds like a household cleaner.
Dissolves stubborn stains, mildew, and siblings in the womb.
At twelve weeks we were there—eggy blotches on the sonogram. At twenty weeks, two heartbeats through the fetoscope.
Damned by my cannibalism and Mom’s rehashing of the details, I started small: beheading Barbies, shaving troll-dolls, and drowning stuffed bears with button eyes.
During my tweens, I moved up to goldfish—overfeeding.
Now, computers—my third in two years—dead.