I made you cry

You looked at me with wide, round eyes, so soft, so small and then you cried. Because I snapped, I rolled my eyes, I let my anger override. You didn’t mean to get in the way, you just wanted to laugh and play. But I was tired, or mad, or bored, and you were who I took it toward. I told you, go, I told you stop, I said things that I wish I’d drop. And when your smile slipped off your face, I knew I’d left a broken place. You ran away and closed your door, and I just stood there, nothing more. My pride was loud, my voice was sharp but guilt hit later, soft and dark. You didn’t ask to be my shadow, didn’t mean to make me mad though you just wanted me to see you look up when you look at me. I’m supposed to be the kind one, right? The one who teaches wrong from right. But how can I say “use your voice,” when I used mine to drown your noise? I wish I held you, said, “I’m here,” instead of feeding you that fear. I’d trade my words, I’d take it back those tiny tears, that little crack. So now I sit outside your door, the guilt is heavier than before. And all I hope is you’ll forgive the sister learning how to give not just advice, or rules, or space, but love that never leaves a trace of pain on your small face.