Dear Grubby Fag,
It’s Sunday morning and I’ve scoured the house looking for a notebook with actual paper. You know, the kind you write on with ink from a pen.
What is this? 1992?
I had this grand idea that I was going to write you an old fashioned letter and mail it to you with a copy of Lisey’s Story (not in French), along with some catnip and toys for Petra (did she finally get fixed?) and maybe some bunny love for Violet, although I don’t really know what bunnies like. I’d find out though. You better believe I’d find out and send her all the goodies that she probably wouldn’t play with, that cranky wench.
I gave up my search for pen and paper because I was becoming desperate to get these words out into the universe to you and I could no longer hold them inside me. I’m still going to send you that letter and that book but these words have to be emptied from my soul right goddamn now.
I know you’d understand.
You left me on the morning of July 24 and haven’t been back since.
I can only assume you’re dead.
I’ve scoured all the obituaries in Montreal for the last several days.
I can’t find yours anywhere.
Maybe they cremated you and spread your ashes under our tree where you ate your lunch and thought about the violent yet sweet ways you’d ravage me against her bark. I like to think of you there in the dirt, underneath her canopy, your ashes mixed with the love we never got to make. I still have her picture on my phone. I look at her from time to time and think about you holding me against her, you inside me, barely moving against me, slow and gentle so the passers-by would just think we were two lovers caught in an embrace. But your words in my ear would tell a different story, wouldn’t they? You’d call me dirty and sweet names in French and bite my lobe if my breath became too ragged. You always took care of me like that.
I miss the way you called me ‘baby girl.’
I listen to your recordings over and over and I want to impale myself on top of you every single time you say “Oh my god Petra, die in a fire!” in the middle of some story you were telling me.
I look at your pictures and your scandalous videos and I get weak with the remorse.
The remorse of never again hearing your voice or reading your words.
The remorse of never meeting you in that hotel room in Grants Pass where all sorts of beautifully wicked and grossly erotic things happened between us.
The remorse of our dreams deferred by your untimely death.
Our little house and pond on those few acres of land we were going to have somewhere, somehow.
The animals we were going to love and care for.
The violent sweet love we were going to make all day everyday until we died or our parts stopped working.
The cliff we were going to drive off of in the end so we’d both go together.
“Yeah, fuck you and I love you.”
“I love you too, you dumb bitch.”
“I know, you grubby fag.”
“Hahaha. God. You’re wonderful. Stab me, you beautiful skank.”
“Shit, you know all the back alleys to my heart. You ride around in them on your skate board and graffiti the shit out of them. Never stop.”
Why did you stop?
I never wanted you to stop.
In my head, I keep repeating that one lyric from that song “Slow Show” by The National.
“Everything I love gets lost in drawers.”
I guess you’re just in the drawer now. With the others. Fuck, I didn’t want you to wander in there. What’s so goddamn appealing about that fucking drawer? I want in. Can I come in? It’s my goddamn drawer after all.
Listen. You’re an asshole for leaving.
I don’t care if you did die.
You’re an asshole for dying and not haunting me.
You said you were gonna.
Where the fuck are you then? Huh? I’m waiting, you gigantic jerk. Come feel up my titties while I’m passed out on the couch from drinking too much red wine. Again.
You could have told me you were dead, fuckface.
But you didn’t. Instead, you just went all throat slit on me and passed out before I got a chance to cut my hand and rub our blood together so you’d flow through my body forevermore.
I’ll never forgive you for that.
But actually, I already have.
And in case you’ve forgotten, you love me.
You sent me that song one time and told me the album was special to you. I listened to the whole thing because of that.
You were special to me, J.
One time, a long time ago, I told someone that my heart was large and cavernous and there was room in it for everyone.
You’re in there now, too.
I’m keeping you there.
I hope you don’t mind.
See you on the other side, maybe.
If I don’t see you again on this one.
I love you, Grubby Fag.
All the love forever.
And a Day.
Your Twisted Saint.