In a choir of voices, a 

Soloist

Is a tricky business.

 

We breathe as one, 

More intimate than lovers, and 

At the same time,

 

Not,--it's only what we're

Meant to do.  But not the

Soloist--

 

Oh no. No, she's the one who throws

Off comforting, 

Hiding in faces,

 

And stands out front to suck

The unforgiving air on her

Own.

 

In beginning, unworthiness

Weighs down her voice

In phlegmy guilt,

 

The poison of perception of

Her sisters staring swords

To bite her breathing back,

 

And it's tempting to

Will her sick, so another equal one

Can take her place,

 

And she'll be back to 

Normal, right? No

better than us.

 

Except soon we are the 

Soloists

Trapped in the suffocating 

 

Spotlight, not burning with

True criticism but

With the malice we

 

Invent for our sisters.

We are told the world is sexist,

Racist, and so it must be

 

Soloist,

Right?

 

Wrong.  You, my darling, invented that 

Jealousy yourself,

Even as you admired

 

The brave Soul playing

Your role

Two years ago.

 

Do not yourself the

Disservice of assuming that your 

Sisters are

 

Soloist.

For they are proud of you,

And love soloists their own.

 

For Kylie