She won’t let me in. I wish I could claw her face off, get to her soul, understand who she is, feel safe in thinking I know her. We grew up together; we were hardly ever apart; we have the same rhythm to our voices and set the table the same way; even our phone numbers are different by just a digit. Still, there are parts of herself she keeps from me. If I were still writing, I’d write a shitty short story about us and what we’re going through and how there are no words for it, and in it there’d be a sentence like: Having a sister is looking in a cheap mirror: what’s there is you, but
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