At twenty you’ve managed to erase our dad’s face from your own, blacked out his sharp cheekbones with roses, marked each eyelid with an upside-down cross to distract from his glossy brown irises. DEATH spreads over your freckles next to a faded knife. I envy the stick-and-pokes sprawled across your forehead, the sparrow and SEE NO EVIL. How you’ve buried him in black ink. My own freckles are a reminder of every time he left; my eyes are the color of a leather belt. I envy how you called me in the middle of the night after ten years of us not speaking and said, You’re still my sister. The next day you overdosed. And I cried in the shower, angry about the way my hair curled when wet, in the same way as yours, in the same way as his.