A Letter to My Sister’s Murderer

Before the Sisterwives came about, I was unaware of the beauty which is Kim Sisto Robinson. But when I started reading her words, I was absolutely floored. More than anyone I’d read previously, I could relate to her writing. I too know the pain of a sister’s murder and I felt a kinship with her writing immediately. I am thrilled that she agreed to guest post for us.


Gone. The saddest word in the language. In any language. –Mark Slouka

Dear Mike,

Today is a horrible day.

A not wanting to get out of bed day.  A missing my sister day.  A day of not being able
to escape reality. I hold on by a slight string between heaven and hell, night and day,
sanity and insanity. I hold my breath wondering if that string might sever and split me
wide open.

I’ve been bleeding for way to long.

I hold on by writing words, by baking chocolate chip cookies, by dying my hair red.

But the loneliness endures, the nothingness, the sadness, the questions. For example,
why did  you murder my sister? Why couldn’t you have just killed yourself? Why
couldn’t you have shot yourself first?

From the beginning, I never liked your face. I should have stopped you from
entering our lives, seeping inside our home like a kind of insidious negativity that
plugged up every gap, every corner, every holiday.

I should have known who you were form the start, should have screamed and
shouted and jumped up and down in rebellious fury. I should have broken all of
your fingers so you couldn’t pick up a gun.  I should have wrapped your mouth up with
silver duct tape to end your belittling, demeaning, manipulating, poisonous tongue.

I should have done so many things.
But I stood silent. And, my God, standing silent KILLS.

The first time I saw your face, I knew.
I knew…as a cat recognizes a storm approaching. You know, the way the hair stands
elevated upon the back, the way it hisses a warning of some kind. That instinctual sense.
I remember the first time you visited our old white house on 65 Street. Kay called me into
the kitchen.

“Well, Kimmy, what do you think of him?”
“He looks like a monster.” I said.
That’s what I said. The first words out of my mouth. Did she ever tell you?

You never left after that night. You hung around like a substanceless, depthless
nothing. I’m sorry, but I have no other words to describe you.

You took and took and took. You absorbed space. You even sucked up the fucking air. You expected
everything, even though the world owed you nothing.

You were addicted to a sixteen year old girl who eventually became your Lolita—
somebody you could mold and shape and manipulate into your own private puppet.

Remember when Kay tried to leave you the first time and you sat outside our house
for hours with that little brown car running, Led Zeppelin blasting? I keep wondering
why you couldn’t have died then,  left us alone then.

You became a predator, a stalker, a black lingering blur, Kafka’s roach in the end.

Mom and I continued to look out the front window and there you were…sitting with
your head on the steering wheel– and to this day, I can’t figure out if you were
laughing or crying.

Perhaps you were already planning Kay’s demise.

Why couldn’t you find somebody else to put you back together, find somebody
else to make you feel whole, unbroken, human?

Didn’t you give a damn that your son would find both of you sprawled out on the tiled
floor like rag dolls? Shot. Murdered. Dead.
You Son-Of-A-Bitch. You selfish devil.

Are you in Hell? Are you burning up? Oh, God,  I hope not. Because even after all
of this unbearable, inexplicable pain,  these shadows….I still feel sorry for you, sad for
your pathetic existence, still imagine there is hope for you to change.

But not with Kay. No, you can’t have Kay. Not anymore. Never again. She
is finally free of you. Liberated. Emancipated. Powerful.

She rises up from the grave every. single. day.

—-An Important Note:  Do not wait to get help for any kind of abuse;  this includes verbal abuse.  My sister waited too long,  but you don’t have to.  Free yourself today. Call this number today: National Domestic Hot Line— 1-800-799-7233 | 1-800-787-3224 (TTY)


Kim Sisto Robinson is an mother, wife, cat lover, educator, writer, obsessive blogger, and poet. She created the blog, My Inner Chick, 4 years ago in memory of her sister, Kay, who was murdered by her soon-to-be ex husband in 2010.
”I will spend the remainder of my days advocating for women without a voice. Kay was silenced, but she lives again through me.”

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Blog: http://myinnerchick.com