My Dearest Brother,
Expect to watch me die. I know from being alive that you won’t give me the dignity of even opening my suicide letter. Forget my…
desperation for love
…appreciation for dust and ashes
…predation for whatever breathes. You’ll see prettier things in your dreams. In that blank space there is no day or night, just sweet escape from reality.
Here lies Jarred, the naked mannequin and brother with the saddest story. My feelings are the truth that won’t let you free. I’m tired of Lonely. Please, brother. Share this memory with me.
“Libby. Libby! LIBBY!” She laid cold on the kitchen floor. You pulled her head onto your lap and cradled it. The way your wails reverberated around the room and pulled hot tears down your face didn’t compare to the sweetness I was sucking from my cuticles.
“She’s better now,” I said, but you kept rocking back and forth. I licked my last fingertip. “She was miserable. Now she’s free.” You froze.
“You’re an animal.”
“Aren’t we all,” I asked. Be honest, brother.
You’re just like me.
Save the name unspoken. That’s my Beautiful. My only, who breathes without me, can’t exist in the world by diary. Every day I wait for your letters. I check their dates hoping to read about Jared’s expiration. Instead of tick-tock it’s wheezing to the final hour. This life is just one of those things…it doesn’t matter. We are not of this world. We are of our own culture. I am a mannequin. How will you dress me, Jared?
Are you a man or a mouse? We don’t like to think about it but I know you remember. Remember our sister laid dead on the kitchen floor for thirteen whole minutes. You had to make a choice. Now you chose not to write me back. I’m already a hurt person, Jarred. Stop trying so hard to make me worse than you, when my letters help you to be all you need. Those letters remember the forgotten Jarred. I know how much you hate reading them through the night. I know you hate that can’t hate me enough. The remembered Jarred competes with his wife to sleep with more women than she does men. He won’t mention what he thinks he eisnt supposed to know. The Jarred I’m writing now is wearing my old saran wrap across his face. Give it up, brother. You can’t wipe your spirit in alcohol like me. We’re not the same…but we’re close enough. As you try to wash away your sin. Listen to God. Let me know what he has to say about Skil, your unborn son. Last chance, Jarred.
Are you a man or a mouse?