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Fake Farewell

Dear Brother,

Growth…that’s what you’re calling it?  I slave over these letters to remind you of your roots…and you insult me with growth!  The only thing different about you is you’ve gotten better at pretending.

I’m real because I feel with my eyes open.  I smell with my nostrils flared and grab with both hands.  You do hate yourself.  That’s why you coined yourself a “mannequin”, remember?

Only you can dress the New Jarred.  The old one could move on his own and didn’t need clothes.  He was unattached to this world.

My Brother knew Asthma; its grip and how it makes you starve until you become another man.  The Old Jarred knew Asthma’s empty.

Right now you’re pretending, because somewhere along the line you got guilty.  I’ not worried about you, though.  I tried for you.  Asthma’s attack will rip you, I’ll be there with the stitches, and you’ll remember.  You’ll get it.

Until then…this is a real farewell to the fakest version of you yet.

Best,

Jared

 

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Selective Misery

Jared,

You are relentless trying to fool with me.  It doesn’t matter.  You had run out of blows when you mentioned my unborn child.  Taunting me with the former love of my life was only for your pleasure.

You’re right, Jared.  Don’t get too smug yet, read the rest of the letter.

You’re right; we are alike in a lot of ways.

  • Food-driven animal
  • Emotional addict
  • Asthma

You’re still wrong to think I hate myself for who I am.  Unlike you I’ve grown through my pain far enough to accept myself.  You pretend to cherish all of our ugly moments as the highlights of our brotherhood.  Feeding on your own misery is a suicide recipe.  I finally left the kitchen.

Whatever you want, Jared…I don’t have it.  Libby didn’t have it either.

I don’t want to hurt like you or suffer like her.  Be a hero for yourself, Jared.  Please set yourself free.

Sincerely,

Jarred

New

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.

 

 

Scorched Smooth

5/02/16

Scorched Smooth

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.

 

Best,

Jared

P. S. No one in my life wants to be bothered by my asthma.

Brother-less

4/28/16

Brother-less

Jared,

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. 

 

FUCK OFF,

Jarred

P. S. ASTHMA DOES NOT MEAN SHIT.

Ghost Scratch

4/27/16

Ghost Scratch

Dear Jarred,

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,

Jared

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.

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