Monthly Archives: April 2016
Stop writing me these letters. I don’t care about your fucking asthma and I don’t want to remember anything about you or know anything more about what you did. Knowing of it is already too much. I knew Mr. Ashley and Auntie were fucking; the rest of the town knew too. It was nothing to know. Stop calling me your brother, because we haven’t been brothers in a long time, maybe not ever. I want to FORGET you, Libby, Mr. Ashley, and even Auntie.
You don’t have to write me another fucking letter to tell me about that midnight. I know what happened, Jared. I was there. Don’t put it on paper. Don’t write me again. And leave Libby the fuck alone too, she was always going to leave your ass anyway. Just like me she was damn tired of hearing you bitch and whine about you and your problems.
P. S. ASTHMA DOES NOT MEAN SHIT.
How are you, brother? My spirit is grieving for Libby. Mr. Ashley doesn’t deserve a letter from me. In the end Libby didn’t either, but I still love her. Thinking of Mr. Ashley makes me smile now. Whenever I remember ripping that pubic wig from around his asshole, I laugh with whatever air I can. It was the ultimate bittersweet. Cutting off his dick then placing it in the love of my life…
It was everything she claimed I could never give her. That’s why I did it, Jarred. That is why I scratched my itch…again. The first time was just for me and the second time was only for Libby.
You are my brother, but I am no longer yours. The itch took me from you by making the subconscious into reality, while reality becomes forgettable subconscious. For two weeks I barely floated with my nose poking out of the water, until you snatched me out of the water.
After stumbling through the door one midnight in a fake drunken stupor and my clothes reeking of badoosey, you hit me. The instant sting of having your fist on my jaw made my whole face hot. 14 days passed of me walking in the door, reeking, stumbling and slugging. I couldn’t move at first, due to the shock; you were looking directly at me. There was nowhere to go. There was nothing to be said. I was caught and the last find out about it.
13 days, were spent rubbing that spot. Scratching was overdue. On Day 14 it was time to feel good.
With lots of love,
P. S. Most things are about my asthma, this is a big one.
P. S. S. You must understand I’m not writing these letters to hurt you.
J + L forever, brother. Forever is an illusion; I don’t think Libby’s waiting for me at the Gates of Heaven. Remember Auntie used to take us to Bible Study every Thursday night? It was the only time she took off that shit-smeared apron. It was hideous to you, yet beautiful to me.
You never saw things as beautiful after that stain was made. You stopped seeking the whole world. I was glad when you went blind because it meant I was truly invisible. I hated how you could SEE me. My mask was less transparent than saran wrap through your eyes. You even tried to peel that back. I fought you and cried many dry tears until one day I decided I wanted you to really see me.
It was the afternoon Mr. Ashley came with us to the grocery store. You didn’t know it at the time but he and Auntie were fucking and he wanted to stay real right with her, so we shopped. Everything was fine until the bell dinged and the doors slid open to welcome Libby in the store. I saw him look at her then ball up his fists. I already knew, but seeing his anger made me itch…
You’ll never forget how my itches… made me; I’ll never let you.
P. S. I only did it because of my asthma.
Kiss My Orange
The earth stopped pulsing when you left. Its rough crust tore apart my fingernails, when I tried to dig for a beat or a simple breath. It was only you. You made it live as you did me. I still don’t have the words and I’m not sorry about it. We know I love you and we’ve witnessed me kill for you and I know you believe I would have died for you. That was all we ever were…you, Libitina Choake.
Remember how we used to scream until the words blurred to noise then hard hiccupping sobs? The petty insults were lost, but the pain was still seeping. I remember how the tears streamed down your neck; they tasted like saltwater on my tongue. I think you knew how thirsty they used to make me. The memory is making my throat ache like my anus.
I needed you to stimulate my prostate. Our hate fucks were the best. Your neck was so pretty and I used to grab it like a reign and pull you on to me as I pushed into you. Only in those powerful moments would you say “please” or call me by name. You said the stupidest shit sometimes too; we needed to fight. Hate fucking was the best thing we ever did to each other.
I needed you to stimulate my prostate. Mr. Ashley gave you bruises and I hated him for it. I gave you love bites, maybe the occasional tap, but never bruises. When I finally wanted you to hurt, I went for the gusto. Mr. Ashley’s dismembered penis went deep in your ass (you never let me forget how much you liked it in the ass) and mine went in your vag. We pumped your brains until you bled, then I flipped you over so your sweet tears would mix to make gore. I hit the Big O that night, Libby. I hit it hard, while your face was making orange in the sheets.
I needed you to stimulate my prostate. My asshole looks like an orange star. This is a fun fact considering you’ve never touched it with a single sense. You would have liked my starfish because orange was your favorite color. Of course you were the only one who was ever eaten, interesting how a flame can grow so hungry so fast…
“Stimulate my prostate,” I said thrice. After the third time, you stopped dignifying me with a response. We used to ask each other, “When did things turn to acid between us?” It was always there, Libby. It just took a while for both of us to feel the burns.
P. S. I am sorry about my asthma.