Work Text:
dear clément,
i want to kill you. i am not so sure if that is romantic, or if you would ever let that happen. i want to write this in french but you were right; my french is not very good. my grammar is poor because i am drinking my mother’s wine. everything is wrong because it’s me.
i hate you for leaving. i don’t know where you live in paris. i hope that maybe i’ll find you if i ever visit, or that you might be in east sussex for my graduation. i hate you for leaving and i wish you’d killed me instead. (maybe there’s a smith out there who makes double-sided knives. maybe even that’s too romantic for you.)
sometimes i touch myself. most of the time i don’t, though. because i hate you. because my body doesn’t. i am trying to get better. did you know that i’ve picked up birdwatching? of course you don’t. it’s sort of funny; it’s the exact kind of thing you would’ve called me a faggot for. fair enough. i jot down every type of bird i see in a thick journal i bought secondhand. i still love you very much. i always miss you. i think my mother does, as well, but she won’t admit it.
i think what makes me the maddest is that, when i kissed you, you ran. when she kissed you, you stayed. i am so innately jealous of her that i dream about hacking her to pieces even though i know i’m not capable of it. it’s enough to make me morning sick.
we could have lived a lovely little life. i would have been your wife, if you wanted me to be. i would have folded myself up as neatly as possible to fit in the thin crevices of your heart. i would have done anything. i still would. we could have done what my parents did— we could have bought houses, tens of them. we could have had a failing marriage. we could have argued and slept in separate beds. you could have screamed in my face, telling me you wished you never met me. anything to hear your voice. i’ll take you strangling me if it means your hands on my skin.
i hate you. i hate you. i hate you. there is something very wrong with me and it is all your fault. my mother hates me and it is all your fault. do you think, if i tied this letter to a pigeon’s little ankle, it would find you? better yet: do you think that, even if it did, you’d read it? i wouldn’t. god, i want nothing to do with you. i can’t wait for smoking a pack a day to catch up to you. i want your lungs collapsing. i want you to think of me in those final moments. please write me back.
love, elliot