The sisters pose before a mountain within a snow globe, dressed in matching halter-tops — blackbirds in reverse X-ray. In older places, there are two matching beds in one pink room — a pink shag carpet and identical ruffled duvets. They sleep on opposite beds, facing away, one from the other. The first sister spends her nights tumbling down Niagara Falls in a tobacco barrel, only to wake up and find everyone gone from the house, distant voices droning beyond the walls — the entire world racked in fever. The second sister becomes a velvet girl hung in a basement—her ribs broken open—her fortune-paper head nodding yes nodding no — the careful sister who washes all the dishes without being asked and tries not to stare too long at the sun, fearing blindness. Where one sleepwalks, the other sister follows, a slow circumnavigation of the bedroom perimeter — knife in hand, tonguing crumbs in antithesis while avoiding the moss-covered hallway which invokes delirium at its widest shore. Their amphibious poses betray disdain and the desire to murder with stones. How interesting to not be hunted down with every possible dagger — though it would hardly feel like love anymore.
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