Say Goodbye to your Sisters

"Hold your sister's hand,"
My mother tells me
I don't want to.
She's too clingy.
She has funny hair.
She sucks on her pacifier too much.

"Play nice with your sister,"
My mother scolds me.
I don't want to.
She doesn't play right.
She smells funny.
she won't play the way I want to.

"Don't push your sister,"
My mother yells at me.
I want to.
She's dumb.
And ugly.
And she steals all my hugs.

"Look at your new sister,"
My mother shows me.
I don't want to.
She's more clingy than the other one.
She has even funnier hair.
I don't want two sisters.

"Don't pick on your sister,"
My mother points at me.
I want to.
She's so small.
And really noisy.
She always gets what she wants.

"Say goodbye to your sisters."
My mother tells me.
I don't want to.
I'll miss them.
I love them.

They don't have such funny hair.
They smell moderately nice.
The way they played was okay.
They weren't too clingy.
They shared most of their hugs.

I'm sorry I didn't like to hold your hands.
I'm sorry I played rough and cruel.
I'm sorry I pushed you both.
I'm sorry I didn't want you at first.
I'm sorry I picked on you both.
I'm sorry I said Goodbye.