"The other one, the one they call [Sophie], is the one things happen to."

Slurring steps like words, not even drunk, yet
still seeing clearly the blurred letters you sent.

I let her cry, although I never understood
how the salty spate should heal a temporary break.

Blowing up small things to make them big is, what?
we were taught, more than being warned on how they will pop.

I can clearly see through the glass bones and paper
skin, sitting and tightening her ribs, enjoying the plague.

Spilling speech, strictly to rid myself
of your poisonous finger-tipped bones.

I let the break hurt more, swinging mischievously, pulling off the band-
aid slower to compose the tones for her to express.