@propriate / AN UNFINISHED LETTER
fingertips press further pressure against the near nonexistent EDGE of the pen he holds in hand , though if he were to run skin over it slowly && firmly as he does now he can feel it . the slightest crack in cheap plastic that breaks its perfection . there is ink smudged somewhere , he is sure - though it fades invisible into the fabric of his gloves that it is there && will HAUNT him , bring memory chasing at his heels && herding his thoughts right back to this stupid letter impulsive mind has forced upon him . this stupid letter that he would , under no circumstances , send into the ever eager hands of his rival . he’s sure even if he did manage to swallow his pride , the other would not be bothered to read his tragedy poured onto paper . still , he remains in place && he is FROZEN with downcast gaze to hover on first two hastily written bits && notes that his letters have sloppily poured over lines that they should not have . fucking impulsive .
the bridge of his nose wrinkles a bit , nostrils flaring . he can smell cigarette smoke . cheap perfume && poor choices . his leather jacket . he should stop , should stop writing && toss the pen aside so he could LAUGH about it later when another moron would come trudging in with a piece on their arm only to break it under foot . it wouldn’t be him cleaning up the ink or replacing ugly shoes . but he doesn’t stop but rather he is victim to further racing thoughts . dear N . he wants to tell him . he wants to tell him he hates him .
he hates him && since he’s walked out the door of the institution he’s moved mountains , CLAWED his way to success just as he was meant to . he didn’t need him , his judgement , or his acceptance . none of it . he is doing just fine on his own , he wants to tell him that up until now he’s been happy without his name bitter on his tongue . but he is not a liar . not to him , he would see right through it .
he would see as soon as he claimed not to have him on his mind that he is every passing thought he’s ever stumbled over . that when he does not sleep well && stares HOPELESSLY at the moon , grand && ever bright he thinks of him . how it is porcelain , only imperfections shown being grey shadows of craters too far away to pin down && it reminds him of the folds of clothes that settle a little too big on his stature . reminds him of a dartboard in the sky . he would see that when he sits on the edge of the coast alone , breeze STICKING honey hair to his cheeks && gently tossing up sand around combat boots dug into the ground by firm soles to keep him anchored , he thinks of him as he fascinates over an ENDLESS ocean . dark && void , cold enough to leave goosebumps on his skin even when he’d layer up as he’d dip waiting hands into the waves that licked upwards to meet the earth . dark && void but he is smart enough to understand that even though the surface goes unchanged there is a life beneath it that can drag him under . he wouldn’t have a chance .
he would know , with unblinking stare that had so often bore down on him && would skim over INK SPILLED words that he would be lying . that as he sits upon a dirty throne , feet kicked up atop glass table littered with ASH && emptied bottles that though he is surrounded by life , the most buzzing , active , wild life , he feels . . empty . there is nothing here without him . that he’d never call himself a king . && he would know .
it disgusts him , how easy it is . to be so far away && fall apart pathetically . it is , by all means , a defeat .
he has a headache , he can feel himself grinding his teeth though he’s not sure when he’d started . this is pointless . && he tells that to himself one more time as he’d cross out forbidden murmurs on an otherwise blank page && crumple it in the palm of his hand , tossing it to the floor without looking . he doesn’t care where it goes . it didn’t matter . it never had .
