Möbius Strip Of Losing Her Analysis

This is the Möbius strip of losing her.

(2018 A.D.)

Or, more truthfully, this is the way the science goes wrong - this is your sister holding up abhorred shears and cutting the strip where it warps, and this is you, finding her in the torn fibers where the blades went through. You’ve lived your lives in a bilious cycle of knowing that whilst there will be death, someone or other will eventually roll away your jagged stones and bring you back again, lifted up by the point in the middle of your skull to stand on two feet. Twin Lazari, better at turning out the lights than blinking into the sun. But she’s cutting the strip, and though it’s difficult to close scissors with such mutilated hands, she’s managing. She’s saying enough, our lives should not be see-saws; this world sure as hell ain’t a playground. This is

Your father was a sculptor: he carved a piss-poor excuse of a childhood and dropped it onto your shoulders, and this is you seeing it arranged in front of you like creation, every dent in the stone a forgotten birthday, and your sister is standing beside it, staring at her hands. Here you are, thinking this can’t be right. You’re thinking that there’s only one barrel of water left to last the summer, and wondering if it'd be worth trying to wash the dirt out of her wounds with it. Can glory be infected? Or is the glory the disease itself, like a skull of a deer that died from syphilis, standing like a trophy on the fireplace mantel? This is her, smiling with cracked lips, telling you that she’s happy, and this is you, calling her a liar and washing her cuts with salted tears, and these, look, these are her eyes, focused on the space in front of your face, and this is your sudden realization that she’s staring at death. The path to Vix is paved with jagged stones. There are two lanes; time to start