Bone memory captures even the smallest details that otherwise wouldn’t be noticed at cost of the very painful process of losing your blood, which is where all the feelings live, so I traded my life for other peoples’ bones, and I kept my blood, and I keep forgetting, and I have piles of wishbones, unbroken, in the trunk of my car. I am afraid of what will happen if they break wrong. Their memories stay trapped and dusted with only sensory detail, defying articulation. I have been trying to transcribe this. They are not my bones, but I have been trying anyway. I don’t snap them, even for their wishes, even when they make me angry or scared, because I am just the interpreter of pain. Sometimes I think about using them to wish away my blood, for ease, but I don’t, and I hope that feelings make me alive enough, and I try not to think about how ink could be like blood.