To my cousin Mako, I’m sorry you didn’t see the popcorn. Most cousins like spending time together. Not us. I was a burden to you. Our grandmother saddled me onto you so hard that you could hardly breathe. You had a loving mother, a wealthy family, and friends. And most importantly, other cousins. Like him, the one whose huge house we would visit. 

Auntie would give us a big bowl of popcorn scattered with smarties and set us in front of the TV. Your cousin liked me, I think. And then you got older and started needing your own space. So, as he and I ceremoniously plopped in front of the TV, you wandered off to a private room until the afternoon. How did you not see the popcorn, though? On the floor, on that day? A mess that you would inevitably have to clean up as our visits were no longer supervised, as you had become our sole guardian for the afternoons. I was a girl. He was a boy—your tall, handsome, smirking, rich cousin. 

I remember liking his dogs; they were very friendly. But you wanted me to stop stealing your family, didn’t you, every time your uncle complimented me? You wanted me out of your life, didn’t you, every time Auntie combed my beautiful thick curls? I couldn’t have anyone else but him. You let him have me, and I didn’t want to have him. He wanted to show me his room, but I wanted to watch TV. There was a struggle; the bowl fell, and white florets scattered over the floor, towards the hallway. I heard you, you know. Walking past his room. Your feet accurately skipping over the butterfly kernels. There’s a game of hopscotch that requires the same strategy, I think. You were too old to play games, but you still possessed the necessary youthful spring to dodge bits and bobs thrown on the ground. Did you not smell the butter and betrayal? You knew, didn’t you? I heard the hum of the microwave again when he was on top of me, and I listened to every kernel pop.

Pop.

Scream.

Pop.

Slap.

Pop.

Crying.

Pop.

Help.

Pop.

Grandma said you were a teenager, so maybe that’s why you didn’t see the popcorn. You were so used to living in a garbage pit, your room scattered — just like the popcorn — with clothes and makeup, that you were unfazed by the circumstances surrounding the spilled popcorn. But I know you knew, I know you heard me. But you simply made a new bag.

I stopped stealing your family that day, and now, I don’t even eat popcorn anymore.

(Trigger Warning)