A Draft of the Worst Love Letter Ever Written


A Draft of the Worst Love Letter Ever Written

Dearest Stacie,
Dear Stacie,
My Dear

Fri, June 16th, 2014


Well hello!
Greetings from Kansas! Just kidding, I’m in Oz without you! Haha
This thick heat must be screwing with my head. I know that’s no excuse for not writing, but I don’t have a better one. Besides the reliable summer cloud of moistness gluing my shirt to my skin and my skin to my bones and through to the other side of me so I feel (and look) like one of those Doscher French chew taffy bars we used to get at Suckers Sweets that’s been left on the sidewalk for a year, the weather’s good. It’s super.
Ain’t that a lie. I’ve never felt like more of a little shit my whole life.
How are you?

I hope this letter finds you just peachy, enjoying the Italian sun. Or the Venitian sun. Would it be petty to name sunshine after your exact location? Like that crusty Bronx sun or the Queens Beams? I won’t start on how jealous I am as I’d probably be echoing the whiny sentiments of literally everyone else who isn’t there right now. So I’ll leave it with these few words: New York has never looked less like Italy. than it does knowing you aren’t here.

Sun, June 18th, 2014

Wow this has been the hardest letter to write in my entire letter writing career (maybe two to my cousin Harry in Montana since 2nd grade?) Sorry! I just keep finding new ways to fail you!
I miss you.
Did you hear about that plane crash last Monday? “How perfectly awful!” (Remember when we used to speak in British accents at Waffle House? We were definitely their favorite customers).
But damn, one moment alive – with a life and plans and everything – the next, crashing into the Atlantic with no hope of tomorrow—I keep shuddering imagining the impact of that freezing water and well, the end. That’d make a good Titanic 2 – “This time vessel of 400 goes down from the sky and still not enough lifeboats!”
I wonder if they were on the way to Italy too. I’m glad your flight made it. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
Sorry to be so depressing. I guess I’ve been miserable lately. I’ve been down lately. Thinking about you. Thinking about you.
So I messed up last month.
I still love you.
I think I might still have feelings for you, but now I’ve broken your heart.
I am the world’s biggest ass.
What a fuck up of a letter. Need obvious revision. I sleep on it.

Mon, June 19th, 2014

Now it’s tomorrow. The sun through the window makes our crap dining room table look way more majestic than it deserves while our tabby cat Chuckles tries to catch rainbows from that stupid hummingbird stained glass mom put up; sorry Chuckles, you’ll never win this. Though summer’s usually my favorite month, I’m kind of missing the snow. Ya know how you only miss things when their gone, even if you hated them at the time?

This is awkward. I made a mistake yesterday. I checked the Times again this morning and turns out your flight never did reach Venice. You’ll never feel the Italian sun or whether it is any different than New York’s. You’ll never get this letter.
Fuck me. Why didn’t I write sooner? I’ve had a month to figure my shit out, but I couldn’t make up my mind. What if I’d told you earlier? We could have skipped across some furry pastel meadow where the animals would smile and eat us at night – you remember what I really think about bunnies, the stupid rodents. Then you would have known and maybe—
No, you would have been on that flight. You’d been planning this vacation for ages. But maybe I could have been there with you. Then we would’ve died together, all romantic-like, ya know? Titanic style all over again.
What am I saying? I don’t love you enough for that! Or do I? Did I?
I really don’t know. Only the memories of you now until my old age. Or the next girl. Only visions of you dancing on a stage before hundreds. You weren’t that talented, I’m sorry. You were a sucky dancer; at least everyone else knew where to move next and – sorry. Those long, bare legs were lovely to watch.
And that last night in the garden. You, standing on the table with a halo of golden leaves masking your face so I all could see was your blue sweatshirt with yellow lettering and shorts revealing those wonderful legs.
Then as you sat alone smiling up at the sky, waiting for me to join you. But I knew as soon as I did that this – whatever we had – would be over.
Perhaps I was doomed to break your heart. I never thought I was good enough for you anyway. Fuck, who am I kidding? I just didn’t love you anymore.
I hope you were happy at least as the plane went down. But I’m sure you weren’t. You were probably trying to forget me. Like the last words you said before you told me you didn’t want to speak to me again:
“We can’t change our memories. But we can avoid them.”
Why’d you always have to be so fucking dramatic? I’ll have to do that for you. Avoid all thoughts of you. Erase every memory. Erasey Stacie.
Fuck me. I’m sorry I let you down. I loved you once. I don’t know what happened. I got scared, maybe? I don’t know. There’s no excuse for me. Love and reason keep little company nowadays, right? Ah never mind. I lied about loving Shakespeare too, just to get in your pants.
Would I have done it if I’d known you were going to die soon?
Maybe it’s good we’ll never know.
Bye Stacie Aleman.
I love It doesn’t matter.
Your loyal jackass,


The featured image accompanying this poem, entitled ‘Orange Man’, has been used with the permission of artist, Jose Lopez.

Lucy Holden

Lucy Holden is a student at Beloit College, currently studying abroad in Galway, Ireland. She has been published in Writer's Slate, Pocket Lint, and Polaris Lit (forthcoming). When she's not writing stories, she spends her time playing violin, taking pictures of miscellaneous pretty, adventuring, and playing with her little sister.

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