A poem of sorts

This is not how I was raised.
Raising has nothing to do with this
This is how I grew up.
This rage stems not from my home life
But from Mother's Day when I was ten
And one of my "older brothers" was shot in a gunfight
Over a woman.
He died.

I wish I could die too.
Or react with violence, at the very least.

I try to remember that the girl left in tears, never came back.
I try to remember that "little sister" wasn't supposed to grow up like this.
I try to remember that little sister knew better
That she swore at age ten never to let it happen to her.

But she thought she'd be the girl. She thought
She'd be screaming on the sidelines as two desperate crazy men, too
Drunk and stoned to know the difference
Died for her.
She thought that to be worshipped wasn't the worst thing in the world.
She wasn't expecting to be the sacrifice.
Wasn't expecting to die slowly in a room.
Ten years later, little sister hates herself,
For not even being able to flash bravado and die
For a woman.