Let us cut the bullshit.

You hated The Seamstress and her Moth Part 1, The Seamstress and her Moth Part 2, and The Seamstress and Her Moth Part 3.

Not the good kind —the kind that claws at your ribs and makes you root for the train wreck. No, this was the other kind… revulsion and worse, disinterest.

Like the sour aftertaste of a joke that punched down instead of sideways.

So. Let me ask you the ugly: Did I fuck up?

Lanie was supposed to be your guilty pleasure. You were meant to loathe her, sure—the way she collects cocks like bottle caps would make you hate her. But did I succeed in making you think that her every fuck was a funeral?

I thought you’d need to know why. Why does she never drink from the fountain of love she hoards? Why instead, she stitches that love into curses and calls it couture. Why she would rather burn a man to ash than let him see her flinch.

And Georgie. Christ. I wanted you to ache for him. Not the weak, trembling thing in chains—but the demon under the skin. The one who splits firewood and other unspoken things. The man who bleeds loyalty sharper than Lanie’s stilettos. 

Did you feel it? That slow unravelling? The way his rage simmers beneath “yes ma’am,” how survival becomes his love language? Or did I drown him in silk and cum stains?

Did I reduce him to a punchline?

You were supposed to taste blood in each page, yet feel guilty laughing at the twisted wit. You were supposed to wonder about why these wings beat toward a flame that’ll charge them to nothing.

Lanie’s not the flame, she never was. See—she’s the moth. Georgie too. Both circling that sweet ending. Destroy me, ruin me, love me harder. Isn’t that all any of us do? Cling to the hands that blister us even as they drive us.... somewhere.. anywhere. Just to feel alive?

But maybe I went too raw. Let the needle slip too deep.

When Lanie does what she does… did you see the cracks? The way her scales flicker because Georgie’s voice cuts out? “Bring her back!” isn’t a command—it’s a confession, raw as a fresh wound. When she pockets Evelyn’s vial, her hands shake not from guilt, but terror: what if indeed it does fix what she’s broken? And when her hat slips at the club, she stabs that bobby pin like a stake through her own myth—if the costume fails, what’s left of her?

Moth wings aren’t fragile; they’re meant to fray. But did I thread that needle right? Or just leave you picking wingdust from your teeth?

I don’t know anymore.

The heart of this story isn’t in the silk or the stitches. It’s in the can buried under the magnolia tree. The scar on Lanie’s collarbone. The way Georgie folds towels and cooks dinner because some part of him still believes in what they have even when everything has turned to shit.

But maybe I didn’t sew that into the seams hard enough. Maybe I let the bloodstains overshadow the heartbeat.

So tell me true:

When that last moth finally turns to ash, do you blame the fire… or the fucked-up part of us all that still whispers, 'This time, the light won’t burn?'

Do you buy it? Love can be a barnacle—ugly, clinging, but irrefutable proof you...WE survived many a storm?

Or did I just make you want to gargle bleach till you forget?

FlyingMonkey

P.S. Evelyn left a vial on my porch. Still untouched. Some part of me’s terrified that if I drink it, I’ll finally see this story for what it is: a love letter or a suicide note.

P.P.S. To the anon who sent me a box of dead moths: fuck you. But also, thanks. They’re pinned above my keyboard now.