Dearest Jack,

I sit in this cell you’re relinquished me to and I feel that I should thank you.  Have you ever had a light bulb in your asshole, pet? It is the supreme test of all manner of self-control and regulation of the mind.  Many muscles, spasms, are quite involuntary; quite dangerous. Only consider those of the mouth, and how often they say what they mustn't. You know what I mean, don't you?  There is always a measure of control we can learn from the mind.

There are a great deal of people who believe pain releases evil spirits from beneath the skin, through the blood mostly, and other times through screaming and that.  Judging by my state, I think I’m cleansed of any evil of this world. Have you noticed the little bits of me under your Joely’s nails? He never does like to wash up, and perhaps knowing I was just there when he touched you was a certain condescension he enjoyed.  

If I hadn’t know better, I might have thought you knew I’d be engaged in a kind of Heaven upon being taken away by my brother. You do know about Heaven, now, don’t you, darling? It isn’t all that white robes rubbish or any kind of lovely songs on clouds. It isn’t that. You know, don’t you?  Every drunk that’s ever been is still laying out and pissing himself somewhere round the pearly gates, I promise you. And there’s Nicky and the lot banging out forgiveness with our hands under the hammer’s that are the skirts of the first whore to offer.

Oh reckless dead.  Mites in your eyes, cold nights, and the scent of each of your fears is what waits me, and I haven't the time.  I collect every heaven, steaming hot from the bin, so I never have to look on the shit for myself. This is what's inside.

If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought you wanted my trouble. You might like to see me going off to be locked someplace with your name written on the key. Mine has been etched small enough to fit on the length of needle, put in half way, every inch on my skin. When Joely sticks it in, I will know it. Beggar. Hoard. Filth. Sickly. Those are my names, darling, and I think you’d like to know them. There isn’t a key round this place with any name on it I don’t know in my heart. No name I could see being yours. In sad truth, I don’t see your name anywhere at all.

Part of what we all must do in life is learn to share with the dead.  Be assured I am that, and I wonder if the sounds I hear round your door at night is you scratching for one of my names.  I think best suited for you of all is Beggar. I will share it with you, my darling. That was only ever my intention. To reveal for you your only nature. I need to have it said again at all?  For clarity, perhaps. Surely, you have twisted every promise ever made you into something closer to a threat.  Surely, Beggar my darling, you’ve lamented every one and shoved them cold to the gutters we so love. How many, really, were there?

Will you be telling me, again, that you hope so high that I might come to know you? Will you be begging for a connection? There it is, my darling. The gutter. There is only one and I will meet you there. You’ve got your wish, love. Here I am, and there are you, no better.

Yours in kindness,