Rated T for no reason. I basically just chose this rating out of habit pffft

Summary: my letters are either too late or convey nothing at all. - kailuka; weird little piece of writing that tries too hard to be deep.

Author's note: I decided to start this on the last day of 2018 bc procrastination is basically my name ahaha. And wow if this winter break hasn't been a fucking ride. Even more wow at my utter lack of subtlety pfft-

I finally wrote something kailuka hahaha yes motherfuckers yes

Disclaimer: It hasn't changed the last time I checked, so the answer is still no. Richard Siken owns the poem "A Primer for the Small Weird Loves" and the title, which comes from another poem of his, "Snow and Dirty Rain".

The stranger says there are no more couches and he will have to
sleep in your bed. You try to warn him, you tell him
you will want to get inside him, and ruin him,
but he doesn't listen.
You do this, you do. You take the things you love
and tear them apart
or you pin them down with your body and pretend they're yours.

This is not going to last.

I never wrote anything romantic for you.

It seems unfair, when you have composed lyrics after proses after fairy tales about me, at my flimsy whims. It's not fair, of course, but when has anything been fair or beautiful without it ending up being crushed into diamond dust?

This isn't how this letter is supposed to turn out. I'm not well versed in cynicism, and you have enough of that for both of us.

Okay. Do over.

Hello.

I would like to address you as dear, or any other endearments that we have come to sprinkle on out sentence, but you have stopped calling me any sweet names that have any implication of affection, and I don't want to be the one caving in first.

I would like to say I don't hate you anymore, that I didn't sob in front of a mirror when you did not come to reassure me, but you failed spectacularly at that, so of course the lady fell into the clutch of the dragon with dark eyes, fairy tale gone wrong, game over. I would like to say that I didn't get any satisfaction from watching you being tormented, didn't check my phone every three minutes for your replies and purposefully left you on hold for half an hour, but I don't lie, not anymore. I hate you, these days. I hate you for leaving me alone. But that's too clingy, and we are both too smart for this. I'm too spiteful (prideful) to stop doing this, though. You know this. You should know this.

(It terrifies me, the possibility that you don't, and all the things it implies.)

Too needy.

You said you loved me. Pardon the blunt question, but is it me that you love or for some image of me you built up inside your head? You have a history of falling for your own construction of people. In your writing, I'm something exotic, with eternal melancholy and ideas that never fit, a seductive beauty, pastel pink hair and a tendency to spontaneity, like a fictional character. Love, love, is grander and larger than life for you, too quick and too sure. I don't think you have yet to accept me as a human being, with all the ugliness of tantrums and self destruction. It will be ugly when you realize that I'm flawed, that all the pride and the sarcasm and the dramaticism are not attractive but repulsive. Especially the pride, but you should have known that. It will be ugly when you see the toxicity, the tears in the fabric of a soul, the imperfection of a person in full display instead of under rose-colored lens.

I have a speech prepared. Practically a poem, because I do everything as dramatic as possible. You do know that, of all things. I listed out all the things there, and it's a mess of accusations and pleads. You wouldn't want to read it.

You don't. I think that's clear enough. You barely even text me these days, when we had long conversations that spanned more than twelve hours before. I think you've finally had enough of this (me).

I constantly check my phone for your texts. I can't breathe without feeling your absence trickling down the ridges of my spines, the silence I have been so in love with is just stifling now, the stillness sitting wrong on my rib cage. I'm not used to a day without you. NO

Okay, how about this. You never told me how you look like. You did, actually, but it's just a description, and I'm not good with reconstructing thing from description. Seriously. Blue hair and glasses are, though not common, also not generic at all. I don't even know your name. You have full right to disclosure, I know. It just. Doesn't feel like you trust me. Every little personal detail about you I have is either given too little or because of me pushing. That's the thing though. I'm always the only one pushing. I'm the only one pushing for this, for us. I'm the only one trying.

No. Too accusing.

We talk about a great many things, some paragraph-long and introspective, some just plain silly. I miss this, if nothing else.

Something else, then. Something a bit lighthearted. A joke. "A man takes his sadness down to the river, but then he is still left with the river." Here, the pen, the paper, finish the rest of the joke yourself, fill in the blank to fit it around your body, like the sadness, like the river, like hands on your skin. I got under your skin, and that's both a good and a bad thing, maybe.

I enjoyed the last three days of being uncharacteristically nice to you. Kill them with kindness applies perfectly here, but you repelled that kindness like an insincerity (it is), and I enjoyed you watching you being tormented by it. That's the truth. Vindication, vindicativeness, vindicate, all words for the pleasure I got. You didn't want this. You didn't want me. So have this tepidly pleasant person instead, the little marionette made of sugar and cream and all the loveliest things on earth, all the wholesomeness.

I hope you choke.

The forced nature of it notwithstanding, of course. I will pretend even more even if every word has to be cut from my throat if it means you have to go through my absence, if the disappearance of me hurts you at all.

Remember the time you asked me to write something romantic? I didn't, of course. I told you, I don't – can't – imagine romance without tragedy, without something horrific and torn and bleeding dripping at the seams of the love. You called me macabre, if memories serve. I am, but it's not the reason behind that statement. I just don't think anything lovely will last long. I don't think anything lasts long.

When everything went horribly wrong and it was too much, you said I was toxic, that your love for me wasn't love at all. It's misplaced. It burns. Enough, you said, enough. I could hear the disdain dripping from every words, and belatedly, I knew I pushed you too far. It hurts, of course, but you don't care now, and it's my fault this time, I have nobody to blame. I breathe the wrong way and suffocate on salt, but you don't care now, you don't care at all.

"I know," and smiled, and tried to gulp air down parched lungs. "Was just waiting for you to realize that."

See. I told you romance couldn't last long, I told you sadness was an entrenched part of love. Look how we ended up. Look how easily you discarded your affection for me. Look how we destroy each other.

I miss you, but the catch is that I won't admit it, not out loud, not to you. You were wrong first. You did this first. You unraveled me - us - this. I still can't bring myself to apologize first, not when you broke me into little pieces and never even offered an apology, not when you weren't even there for me when I needed you.

I miss you, but that doesn't matter now.

So, you kiss him, and he doesn't move, he doesn't
pull away, and you keep on kissing him. And he hasn't moved,
he's frozen, and you've kissed him, and he'll never
forgive you, and maybe now he'll leave you alone.