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.