the moth complex

I'm in your brainspace with both of our thoughts. I know things you'd never tell another soul, and you know the same about me. I've literally watched you shit. You've watched me break in ways no one else knows about. We've got our secrets, but I know you better than anyone else ever will.

We've been through the same fucked-up things and we grew up wrapped around each other to handle it. You're shaped by the absence of me; I'm the yin to your yang, all the things you needed but didn't want. I hate what you did to me to survive, but I can't hate you when I know exactly why you did it. You feel the same, in your own way.

We've got the same parents, but what's between us isn't the same as what's going on with our external sibling. We care for each other, but I'm not your mom or therapist. I'm sitting with you while you jack off or fuck- I'll even participate, but we're not going out on candlelit dinners or dating. We get work done together, but we're not coworkers.

You're not me. You shouldn't get a tattoo without asking me first. When we die, you'll be the last soul I talk to. Neither of our names will be on the headstone.