Blunt
1/2
I’ve been yelled at plenty of times, accused of things, some that I’ve done and some that I haven’t, but it hurt the worst coming from you, when you said I was hiding from you; hiding behind extended metaphors and anthropomorphic objects and flowery verbs. I’ve always been a writer, you knew that from the beginning, and you admitted that it was the largest reason for your hesitation in deciding to try to make this relationship work. You told me some people never date actors, but that you never dated writers, or any of the creative types. Writers don’t know anything about themselves, you said, convinced that those of us who write do so to find ourselves in this mess of a world. When you read my newspaper stories you always said they were good, and I knew you were sincere, but your eyes were guarded; your sweet, chocolate eyes that were so full of warmth.
I told you that once and I had to dodge the punch you threw at me. You had looked so defeated when you stumbled out of your grandmother’s house, eyes shinning with tears and a touch of puke by your collar. I’d never seen you so angry as that day when I told you that you were like summer, that you made me think of warm sand and the salty ocean, of seagulls squawking and laughing families. We’re still young- you aren’t even out of high school- but I could see that with you, us two smiling with our family and wearing matching silver bands; silver because you hated gold, said it made you feel like you were trying too hard. You hated that though; I always suspected it was because you didn’t trust me to keep my promises.
There was a time I would have been furious at that, been indignant and raging, completely belligerent and I would have stormed out of your house without ever looking back, but I understood now. My parents always told me I couldn’t stick to anything, that I was too scatter-brained. They’d been absolutely livid when I was able to become emancipated at 16, and graduated that same year. They said I was ungrateful, naïve, and now that I’ve met you I know how right they were. I never appreciated what they’d done for me, how much they loved me, until I saw how hard to worked to keep your grandmother company and raise your little sister. It made me realize that I’d never cared much either way for a promise, for being dependable but I had to change for you. I had to be someone you could see yourself loving because I was already half-in-love with you then.
In the past nine days I haven’t spoken to you at all and I don’t even know if you’ll read this. I so dearly hope you do. I can’t stand not seeing you and I’m afraid you’ll never let me see you again, aside from maybe giving me back the little cross necklace I gave you in an attempt to reassure you with your grandmother. It’s been a year now and she hasn’t gotten any better but she’s hardly gotten worse and even if she’s nearly catatonic, you tell me it’s enough just to see her, hear her breath. You already threw the ring I gave you at me, hitting me in the shoulder. It was so little, completely benign, but the hatred with which you tossed it is still haunting me.
I didn’t cheat on you. I went to a party without you, and I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t try to deceive you. It was spur of the moment and I didn’t think. I know it was wrong but I wish you’d listen to me. He was the one who kissed me, and on a dare, but as soon as I told you about the kiss you had exploded. I could see it in your eyes, swimming with the hurt and betrayal; the relief. That’s the only reason I left; I couldn’t face you when you seemed happy to have an excuse to end this. I meant to keep this short. I did, but I already wrote so much just as an explanation so I’ll give it to you in the way you always want; blunt and harsh. You say you hate flowery language, that you hate hidden meanings, then I’ll put it out as plain as I can. I just ask that you don’t use this again me, no matter how angry you may be. I don’t think I could handle it.
I told you that once and I had to dodge the punch you threw at me. You had looked so defeated when you stumbled out of your grandmother’s house, eyes shinning with tears and a touch of puke by your collar. I’d never seen you so angry as that day when I told you that you were like summer, that you made me think of warm sand and the salty ocean, of seagulls squawking and laughing families. We’re still young- you aren’t even out of high school- but I could see that with you, us two smiling with our family and wearing matching silver bands; silver because you hated gold, said it made you feel like you were trying too hard. You hated that though; I always suspected it was because you didn’t trust me to keep my promises.
There was a time I would have been furious at that, been indignant and raging, completely belligerent and I would have stormed out of your house without ever looking back, but I understood now. My parents always told me I couldn’t stick to anything, that I was too scatter-brained. They’d been absolutely livid when I was able to become emancipated at 16, and graduated that same year. They said I was ungrateful, naïve, and now that I’ve met you I know how right they were. I never appreciated what they’d done for me, how much they loved me, until I saw how hard to worked to keep your grandmother company and raise your little sister. It made me realize that I’d never cared much either way for a promise, for being dependable but I had to change for you. I had to be someone you could see yourself loving because I was already half-in-love with you then.
In the past nine days I haven’t spoken to you at all and I don’t even know if you’ll read this. I so dearly hope you do. I can’t stand not seeing you and I’m afraid you’ll never let me see you again, aside from maybe giving me back the little cross necklace I gave you in an attempt to reassure you with your grandmother. It’s been a year now and she hasn’t gotten any better but she’s hardly gotten worse and even if she’s nearly catatonic, you tell me it’s enough just to see her, hear her breath. You already threw the ring I gave you at me, hitting me in the shoulder. It was so little, completely benign, but the hatred with which you tossed it is still haunting me.
I didn’t cheat on you. I went to a party without you, and I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t try to deceive you. It was spur of the moment and I didn’t think. I know it was wrong but I wish you’d listen to me. He was the one who kissed me, and on a dare, but as soon as I told you about the kiss you had exploded. I could see it in your eyes, swimming with the hurt and betrayal; the relief. That’s the only reason I left; I couldn’t face you when you seemed happy to have an excuse to end this. I meant to keep this short. I did, but I already wrote so much just as an explanation so I’ll give it to you in the way you always want; blunt and harsh. You say you hate flowery language, that you hate hidden meanings, then I’ll put it out as plain as I can. I just ask that you don’t use this again me, no matter how angry you may be. I don’t think I could handle it.