Tangled Limbs

We woke up like that every morning for six or seven years,
tangled limbs. We were two separate entities, two different
personalities, but at night, asleep, we became the same girl.
Lost in our dreams, we would find each other, two sisters.
In deep slumber we would hold on for dear life. Awake we would
fight, call each other names, throw things - hairbrushes,
kicks, punches, insults. But at night, even when we claimed to
hate each other, our subconscious would seek shelter in the
other, hiding from the nightmares that prosecuted us. I remember
waking up, opening my eyes and seeing her staring back at me.
It was creepy. In undisguised disgust, we'd push each other off,
untangle our limbs, resume the yell-fest of the night before,
and silently continue to love each other, while proclaiming:
"ew, get off me, cochina", or "gross, you're hella gay!" (I know,
that term is un PC, however, we were young and didn't know any better).

To this day, she's the only person I can share a bed with and
fall into a deep sleep without any inhibitions or worries. On
the rare occasions that we see each other, and the even rarer
occasions when we share a bed, we are once again transported
back to our childhood. Even though we no longer wake up with
intertwined arms and legs, we still become one girl, we lose
ourselves in each other, we surrender to our dreams, and let
our sleep take over.