Kiss My Orange


Kiss My Orange

Dear Libby,

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.


Posted on April 26, 2016, in Dark Comedy, Fiction, Fire, Jared Letters and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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