God, I wish there were fond words to describe you, I wish that I could turn you into one of these sentimental poems the boys I kissed before you ended up as, but there’re no pretty euphemisms I could sugarcoat your apathy in and honestly, every hyperbola I could possibly use would be a waste of syllables, too. Because you, simple as that, don’t deserve the tiniest bit of the effort that I put in writing.
You never read anything I wrote. You don’t like reading. There’s just three things you like:
1. Smoking until the void is filled with dark fume and you feel like they’re watching you
2. Songs about fucking
3. Your mother, who’ll never let you fill the void because she’s always watching you
( This void could be seen as a weakness, a hint of a mental illness maybe, but no, you’re not depressed and you’re not anxious, and the paranoia’s just a side effect. You’re just bored. And you’re quite satisfied with that. “It is how it is.”, that’s what you say. You look like a sixteen year old and talk like a dying man. )
Your mother hates me. You told me you don’t mind and that you don’t need her approval, but that one time, you woke her up on a Sunday just to ask her where the cookie dough was. “She doesn’t need to like the girls I sleep with.” ( That’s all I ever was and suprisingly, I really don’t mind ) So, when you fucked me in your stuffy little room, I moaned extra loudly. Cussed. Cried out your name and told you to fuck me harder and slap me, too. You shoved your fingers down my throat and I thought you’d finally take me like they do in your favourite songs, but you just wanted to make me shut up. “She’ll hear you.”, you whispered. “They’ll hear you.”
You then stuffed my mouth with your cock ( I hated how there were pictures of your naked three year old self on every fucking wall in this dark flat downtown ) and I spat your cum back out and all over it. And I laughed at you. I usually swallow and I love it and you knew that very well ( You fucked my throat on the second date ) , but I didn’t want to keep it in that time, you made me sick so often before.
Some nights, you asked me to hold you. You wrapped your weirdly shaped fingers around my wrists and made me wrap my tired arms around your body. I never slept well when we shared a bed. My insides hurt and I kept waking up over and over and over again to look at you sleeping peacefully on my chest. And you felt like a stranger to me. Such a skinny, lanky boy, so heavy on my heart.
Being with you was never overwhelming or overly exciting. I laughed a lot with you, but never to the point where my stomach hurt. I cried a lot about you, too, but it never really hurt either. I spent days and nights in your presence, beautiful boy with a calming voice, and you never made me shake, you never made shiver, you never gave me what I was waiting for. I was always only waiting. ( And I still don’t know for what. I didn’t want to fall in love with you and I always knew you wouldn’t fall for me. I think I was waiting for the end from the beginning on. Yes, I think I was waiting for a dramatic, drastic end of something that started as quiet as it remained. I hoped for it to at least climax in a Nabokov when it was plain nonfiction on boy and girl friendships with unspectacular benefits - that weren’t even benefits - the whole time through. ) Whatever I was waiting for, it never happened.
That was, in fact, incredibly deep for a letter to someone as shallow as you. Not a poem. Not the short story I wrote on the boy I loved. Not the ghost of the other boy that haunts everything I write. But something.
Most people would want to forget about someone who promised them so much and gave them so little. Someone who’d be “too tired” to make them cum but never tired of asking to cum down their throat again. I don’t want that. I don’t want to forget about you. Because you’re such a simple and unspectacular being that I know the world will forget you and swallow you ( like I did ) and that wouldn’t be fair. So many months ( and probably more, I’m not immune after all, no matter how often I told myself it’s over- there’s no big, dramatic, drastic end to this ), so many kisses, so many nights out on parking lots with my lungs full of the shit you live on shouldn’t just be forgotten and gotten over.
Everything happens for a reason and there’s many reasons why I happen to like you. And unlike the story we share, these reasons are shockingly deep.
But you aren’t.
And I tried really hard, god, I tried, I tried so hard to squeeze you between the pages of a bittersweet novel, but you’re better off in the golden frame on the walls of your mother’s flat than in rhymes in a book you’d never bother to read anyway.
Thank you, though. You didn’t give me inspiration to write. But you reinforced my determination to find someone who’s worth writing about again.
Maybe I’ll make you the stoner next door in a sad coming of age story.