My three sisters

I have three sisters.
All four of us look the same,
small, short, stout, dark, and frizzy.
We're always giggling and playing together.

On Thursday,
one sister went to her friends,
because she liked her friends,
so very much.
She played with them everyday,
till they turned into monsters
and took all her sweets and toys.
They strangled her and she started crying.

On Wednesday,
the other sister went to paradise,
because she likes all that sparkle and shine.
So happy was she to get away,
away from the dirty little people who were her own.
But all that sparkled and shone
turned their noses up, and booed her down,
because she too,
was of the dirty little people.

On Sunday,
the last sister went home,
because her family missed her.
She went home,
bursting with hope,
of receiving a hundred and one hugs and kisses.
Instead, they called her names
and pulled her artful hair.
They tried beating out the individuality
and she felt ridiculed.

On Saturday,
I went home
to my comfartable, cozy, assured life.
Where I kept trimming my hair
and everything else striving to burst out of my head.
I sat in a corner, all alone,
and sulked for the rest of my days.

On Friday,
I went up the hill.
The hill with the ribbon tree.
I ran round and round and round it
until my head started to spin,
and I tripped over a root.

I cried because I had scraped my knee,
and because I saw three heads peering around the ribbon tree.
My three sisters had come at last,
they helped me up
and had me giggling with them in a moment.

The rest of the day we spent
running and jumping and giggling
and hopping and slipping and then giggling again.

We ran faster and jumped higher
and giggled harder,
before we returned,
to our four little miserable lives.