Don’t say gravity. Don’t say go. These are the things we don’t say. For weeks, my sister walked around with rocks in her backpack. This is true. We called the backpack the backpack; the rocks, rocks. She thought gravity had stopped. Some days I thought I was like her. I walked around full of pebbles, stones. I called them meteorites, craters. Organs, hearts. Black and bloodied. Sinking and sunk. The quieter we got, the more I wanted to say. Some days I had to go around swallowing things. My mouth filled with gristle, bone. Claw and feather, hook and eye. The throat its own dead bolt. The tiny ghost who whispered in our ears: Go, I said. Go.