We are three that are one that will always be linked: brothers—Ron, Rex and me.
Rex is home this week for saying to a junior, "Only fags wrestle," and then dismantling the stunned guy after practice. Rex is large and surly, and so the kid's family is suing.
Ron is writing new songs and trying out the lyrics on his Taylor guitar. When I press my ear to the wall that separates our bedrooms, the words from the other side lift and break apart and the cadence catches me off guard so that I have to put a hand over my mouth in order to hide my sobbing.
I keep the lights off in my room, let the lava lamp run while watching the glowing worms reshape and seek new identities.
I was the first one of us out of the womb but I am third. I am both the fag and the girlfriend in a song. I am someone's choke hold and a broken guitar string making the wrong music.
After tonight, though, I'll be the first one gone from this world and I'll leave it up to them to decide whether that makes them twins then.