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.
P. S. I need a new inhaler too.
I’m going to tell you about my new inhaler. Last time my wanting you to know, scared you away from ever wanting to learn. Now you need to know. I am merely a lover, Jarred. You can hardly call me a brother, but I am anything for you. I can’t stay away, especially knowing your hatred. You still read my letters. You’re addicted to me. I love it.
Rofus’s flavor, the latest air I breathed, was very unique. He wasn’t sweet like you, or spicy like Libby. He had less tang than Chuck, yet more zest than Mr. Ashley. Rofus’s flavor was unique in the way oatmeal is bland. I loved it.
The way his smooth lumps slid down my throat was what laid me down at night. His aroma fused well with rope burns and rubbed leather. My finger, the same one I give the suck for you, is twirling in my belly button as I write. Rofus was a palate worthy of sacrifice. Make him thicker. Add some cinnamon, metal, whip cream, or butter. I’m a collector, Jarred. As a particular man who has tastes for interesting flavors, Rofus made me lick my lips all over. The way his ass smashed down on that bar stool was how he smashed down on my face. I breathed him in, Jarred. I ate the air from his ass. I will always love it.
P. S. My lungs don’t ache today.
Promises, promises…love and poison.
I took myself and delivered myself to a life of poison. You remember watching me hurt. I remember wishing it were Libby. Sweet on the lips and flipping in the belly, lovely poison. What is a taste but the beginning of a bite to an indulgence in the meal. Yum.
Thank you Jarred. I don’t itch anymore. I hunger. I growl for the flavors of saltiness, sweets, bitters, and copper. Sometimes I suck my little finger to reminiscence in your twang. A love is not a love unless it makes you cry, demands you bleed, then leaves you shaking from want and struggle to work and feel for victory. You were my tears. Libby was my blood. He is my tremble.
I can finally pen his name. CHUCK.
Promises, promises… love and poison. There is no freedom from lovely poison. This is not me dreaming or screaming or bitching again. You know me like I know how much you hate to love me. It used to be scary but now I’m glad.
You were right about my lovely Chuck. I tried to set him free like Libby, may she rest in pieces.
To Whom It May Concern:
I don’t have to explain myself to you. As people there comes a time in life when we are given the opportunity to tell our story.
“How are you?”
“What is your name?”
“Where do you work?”
“Where did you go to school?”
“What did you study?”
All of these questions are small dosages intended to piece together the necessary frame another must form for you in their mind. They are the bare essentials to compare their life to yours. It’s all they need to decide your value to them. Hardly ever has someone ever said, “What’s your story?” No one cares.
I don’t have to explain myself to you. I want to tell my story. I want to share all of the details you don’t care to even hear simply because they’re important to me. They make me who I am. This is for me. I want to remember. I want you to remember me. How badly we want to be remembered…how hard we try to remember correctly…
I don’t have to explain myself to you. I just want you to know me. Dissect my loves and feel the beats. Understand why my hair is so long. Taste Libby’s cherry tongue and smell Mr. Ashley’s burning hide. Feel Jarred feeling me.
P. S. I had an asthma attack today.
To Whom It May Concern:
The fire built a wall against her face. It melted each layer of Libby’s smooth skin and charred her bones as I pelvic thrusted her further into the heat. Mr. Ashley’s blood ran cool down her ass crack as she did her final clench. Red smeared along the base of my wet penis to mix with Libby’s clear juices. The flame’s smoke put its thick tentacles around my neck, forced my head back, and slipped its tip down my throat. The black in my lungs twisted and stole my air. It made my chest tight until I could not breathe. Although I could easily blink the burning pain aside to focus on the pleasure, tears washed down my cheeks because Libby no longer had any to dry a single spark, while I had enough to flow a river.
The pressure was finally at ease. For the first time in fourteen days there was no irritation. The sensation of her warm walls around me was a kind dessert that was made better by a savory dinner.
Before the night’s blaze, the sun was the day’s fire. Jarred and I were fighting on Auntie’s front porch about how I’d been acting like a fool for too long. He was right. I carried on as if he were so wrong, but sir or madam he was so correct. I was a fraud. I was wearing a mask that bore a sticker of an asthma inhaler on the side next to my right ear. Soon after we turned blue from screaming, he punched me in that sticker. It was the shocking crunch of Jarred’s hairy knuckles on that sticker made me realize…I must teach him what he thinks he already knows. I must rip my own saran wrap covering.
I remember the shoulder impact when I tackled Jarred down the porch steps. We landed in the honeysuckle that tangled in the fence aligned with cinderblocks. He was afraid of how I leered down at his face. Despite the many times we fought, I never hit Jarred. He struggled and failed to unpin himself while, his eyes evaded my face.
“What are you doing, Jared?” I held his wrists up and undid his pants.
“Stop.” A belt, a single zipper, and one snap all fell apart.
“Get off of me.” His body wretched.
I said all of these things to him once. He never failed to do his own will; I returned the favor. After I broke his wrists by smashing the cinderblocks on them, I tied his wrists with his belt then turned him over.
“Now you must feel the real me too,” I breathed in his ear.
I put my dick in him as he screamed. I kept pumping and growing inside his anus. He kept screaming. He sounded like a pop song overplayed on the radio. “Hello…from the butt side AHHHH…”
When I pulled out, shit poured out seconds later. There was some blood around his torn hole too. Auntie left her apron on the hook because she as having a post-bible study fuck session with Mr. Ashley. I grabbed it and wiped Jarred up.
“I love you, brother,” I said after kissing him on the mouth.
If you’re wondering, Jarred left and Auntie still wears that apron.
P. S. No one in my life wants to be bothered by my asthma.
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.