Dear Wigleaf,

I wasn't a writer until I contracted syphilis. Some say that I am not a writer. That I coast on syphilis alone. This I will not dispute. Like the rest I sleep. The words rot my hand. I call it art. You see the cardboard stain. I pass the spread. It quells itching. Open toward me. My hand is getting smaller. Soon it will go inside you. I smell this happen. The leak is here again. I need a tunnel. I need you closer. I have to go. The sore is downright academic now.



PS – Contrary to popular belief, this is not, as of June, a suicide note. I need enough time to learn what hurts you. Tell the child its home was burning long before we made her.

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Photo detail on main page courtesy of net efekt.

Read SK's story, "Progress: A Play in _ Acts."

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