My world is a dark place. Each life is too black to see the difference between blinks. When the light flickers it leaves shadow. The shadows have layered in my mind. They created.
It swallowed me sometimes but I always came out a new version of me. Help my dear brother, Jarred, do the same. We do our best unitl we don’t feel like it anymore. Make him feel again, Bonamy.
As a finale know I did my best.
May the dust fall
Coat the chest of the wanted
Choke soul from the Earth.
Evil flees our air as the earth breathes.
It will continue without me, set my brother free, and allow him joy. Asthma didn’t take me; I took me.
To whom it may concern:
My name is Jared.
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?
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.