Tryskacik

* my sister worries i carry too many loaves of fresh white bread when i speak of you she says they keep falling to the floor and it's a waste she tells me they love you so it would hurt more when they leave and that i shouldn't feel so much it's a sickness of the lungs, my sister says, that quickly spreads to the arms and you find yourself holding on to things until your nails bite through the skin and you get blood on your hands sometimes it's theirs, sometimes your own always always this happens and the days curl around your body like rusted pipes and you suffocate if you ever try to laugh again my sister says i was born without a rib c