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Dear Jarred,

Every time I wield this pen it scars the paper with my confessions.  You know my heart.  It has pumped every deadly sin that turned my spirit black.

The flavors of many boys and men and women sit on my tongue.  I can’t talk, Jarred.  My lungs have been burned and charred to ash from the bodies…and dare I mention the glory.

Glory burns, brother.  Now I’m speechless without enough words to beg your forgiveness.  You were the first scratch to my itch.  You’ll be my first breath of fresh air.

 

Love,

Jared

P. S. I need a new inhaler too.

 

 

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Posted on April 6, 2017, in Clock Block, Dark Comedy, Fiction, Humor, Letter, poetry and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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