September 22, 2017

Letter: “Fifteen”

Warning: the following piece contains violence and strong language. Reader discretion is advised.


You are a terrible listener. I already told you — there exists zero chance of your regaining my favor. To state the obvious: I’ve never trusted you, and now I never will. Weep if you must, but I’m already onto your scent. Tracking your movements: easier than hiding my whereabouts. I can sniff you out anywhere, because you’re everywhere I wouldn’t expect you to be. You keep to the corners of my eyes; you can’t bear to let my figure out of your spyglass. If I’m honest, your predictability does not disappoint.

Yes, it’s true — I witnessed what you did to Bethany behind the tool shed (thanks for the nightmares!). All the romantic confessions and sweet-nothings in the world could not shield me from your rancor, nor allow me to un-see the butchery I beheld that Tuesday night. That poor girl’s blood and guts draped your ring-less fingers (still fresh from that pampering manicure) like obscene fishnet gloves…and somehow, you managed to stuff Bethany’s feet inside her body without using a bigger hacksaw to enlarge her stomach cavity! Now that takes talent.

Kill my curiosity: how did you remove the scarlet splatters from those snow-white breeches? I noticed you wore them again yesterday evening, and they bore nary a trace of a spot, save an errant ash mark — or maybe that was from a charcoal pencil? Anyway, I won’t deny you wore them well. Tight trousers, neat and trim; spic-and-span, cloth-clad cheeks, clean as supper plates licked by beggar-tongues…

Don’t worry: I’ll keep my trap shut as long as this letter never finds you. I’m peeping over my shoulder, but it’s my inborn nature to remain cautious. Look where carelessness got Bethany! In her few moments of clarity — before the fugue of your deception had managed to upend her intuition — she surmised you would play with her heart. In your own sick way, I guess you did. Now she’s a mere hash mark on a score card, wrapped up forever in the cocoon of your cold-blooded indemnity.

I’ll sleep with one eye open until you slink out of town. Find someone else to haunt. Surely, your dance card’s not full yet! Men like you are always prepared to seize the next shell ripe for the shucking. Upon further reflection, I’ve concluded you’d secretly prefer to feast on organ meat, rather than pump up the grind. Monkey around if you must — but give the cymbals a rest, would ya? Bleeding ears.

After the cops catch you, I’ll be thrilled to read this letter aloud at your trial. My ink leaks a certain je ne sais quoi, don’t you think? “Better blood than ink,” you might counter, and I’d be inclined to agree…with a forensic specialist.

Happy to never see you again without the manacles,


PS – Since I know how much you abhor poetry, I wrote you a verse you’ll hate to have stuck in your head while scheming against the guards and plotting a prison break:

“Sucks to Be You!”

Your fifteen minutes have outlived their luck.

Lady Fame’s a fickle fuck.

When she comes for me, I won’t succumb.

Love’s not lived by the way of the gun.


Oh, and don’t forget to drop the soap. 😉



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© Jane Bled 2016-2017

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Fun fact: Millicent was the name of my imaginary twin sister, a feral child who could talk and lived by her wits in the woods in our backyard with two siblings who functioned as my brothers’ doppelgangers. Sometimes she’d visit while we were supposed to be fast asleep and regale us with stories of her perilous sylvan adventures. She’d usually deny she was me if asked directly; but sometimes she’d slip on a sly grin and intimate, “I’m someone else.”