My clothes are on the closet floor, and stuffed into little corners in the top three drawers of the blue dresser with white knobs with stickers stuck and half peeled off.  My collectibles are jammed into the top drawer (leaving no room for clothes.  I see her roll her eyes at my back).  

The walls are bare of me.  My decorations are in the trunk in the attic with my plaques, medals, and other slips of me.  My graduation gown is in the back of the closet, making friends with my First Communion dress and my diploma is in the filing cabinet in the basement.  Oh, look my poster is still there in the corner, hanging by its clear tape, clinging to the sunshine-colored walls I picked and she always hated.  

There's still one shelf where the trophy I'm most proud of is holding its ground against the siege, commanding the troops of dried flowers and porcelain figurines, but they are frail and cannot hold for long.  Thankfully, my shelf is not of much use to store tank tops and skinny jeans, so maybe my little army of rebels will make it through.  Maybe, maybe not.  The piggy bank sentries have recently noted the colored pencils and charcoal eying the shelf with a hungry look.

And as I shove the jeans and t-shirts into little crannies, forcing them away from the prime space, I feel trapped with them.  Hidden and a little unwelcome, tolerated only because they must be.  It hurts, and I know the pain is showing a little, but she doesn't notice much.

After all, she needs her outfits more than she needs her big sister.