#anyway I hate myself and I want to die | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

boxwinebaddie · 3 months

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do u think we can hear a little bit of the kyle cant say i love u ask?

ugh, yes </3

so...fair warning, idk what this is. also...

why is it written in present tense? idk. anyways!

i started ~writing~ something ( bad ) that i was going to maybe slap to the end of the ask, which is not proofread or finished, but basically context is that it's the #ravesey divorce fight, the climax of it...

...where stan starts packing a bag and for one of the first times in his pleated, completed, type-a, show no mercy, no nonsense, new jersey slaughterhouse life, kyle broflovski...is paralyzed with fear.

because kyle who always has his shit together is completely losing it.

everything.

his everything.

his stan.

again.

and he's ripped at the seams, dissolving right before our very eyes: his perfect auburn tresses which usually cascade and glide effortlessly down his lithe shoulders, are fucked up, frizzy and falling all over his face which is pale, creased and gaunt...like he's seen a ghost.

his pupils are blown to high heaven and shot to all hell. dilated like two green distress signals. once fierce now frightened, floundering.

his special stan glasses are crooked and fogging up from how hard and uneven his breathing is with the chain nearly suffocating him from how rough and imprecise his startled, frenzied movements are.

he's shaking his head in horror, in shock, in grief, in utter disbelief. really, his whole fucking body is shaking like an addict going through withdrawals, but this is a million times worse than watching someone flush a pack of cigarettes down the toilet. it stings. it burns. it lingers.

in a way that stan won't.

but kyle needs him to, needs him to stay, needs him close, needs him forever, so he's talking fast, way, way, way too fast, like if he can say enough other words, i love you will seem far less grand and lustrous...

but they're not.

whilist time passes achingly slow. and kyle's given hundreds of speeches, debates and lectures, but words fail him, his lips quiver, his mouth opens and closes helplessly and that booming voice is barely a whisper when he finally musters up the dis-courage to mumur;

"...b-baby? baby! where—where are you going?! w-where are YO—“

kyle darts forward and reaches for his boyfriend before he turns into a memory again, not sure where he was aiming. to please, to squeeze, to stroke his tear-slicked cheek, maybe? to dust the tips of the his trembling, unworthy fingers cross that little spot of sun just beneath his right eye. the gentle curve of his jaw, far less violent than his, or—or even just on the side of his arm where love is written in spanish. amor. like tracing the letters onto his skin would be good enough.

but it never was.

he never was.

and as proof of his inadequacy, stan sails to the left and ducks right under kyle's arm, which collides with the quilted down of their couch.

…their couch.

how long would their couch be their couch? kyle thought that their couch would always be their couch! kyle thought that—

"out."

it was a single syllable, uttered in the same bratty voice harnessed by misbehaved teenage boys everywhere, but it was different coming from stan, whose mouth was not made to start fights or draw blood. it was a horrible, harsh sound, wrought with an undercurrent of sadness.

it was then that the realization dawns on him.

stan wasn't angry with him.

stan was disappointed in him.

which was far, far worse.

kyle wants to look strong, look stable, look sturdy, so stan would look at him — god, he would do anything for stan to just look at him! and stop packing that stupid fucking bag, that dumb black jansport backpack they'd bought back to school shopping because...his stan was going back to school. and kyle was so...so proud of him.

but gerald never was, gerald was loud, so kyle was loud, so when he should have congratulated stan for doing something difficult, he criticized him for not doing something easy! like the dishes and told stan he'd stitched his name into the bag...just in case he lost it.

funny how things happen.

…not funny.

not funny at all, actually!

so then…why was he laughing?

why the Fuck was he laug—

"out? Out? O-OUTSIDE?! stan, you—ya can't be serious?! you're in a little t-shirt and—and shorts, you'll freeze to death! you'll—“

kyle clings to the thin fabric of stan's tee-shirt, admiring the myriad of sauce stains and makeup marks that, on a normal night, kyle might be livid about, but tonight...they're lovely; they're so, so lovely.

just like the boy who made them.

the boy kyle loves.

not rockstar raven of crimson dawn.

but sweet, sensitive stanley marsh.

his stan.

his...

kyle's eyes fall absentmindedly to the tattered hem of stan's shorts, where amidst a jagged, serrated sea of angry self mutilizations past, was a new beginning...the beginning of a word, a sound, a letter...a

a k...for kyle.

stan had gotten it done last anti-valentine's day, as a gift, for him, but mostly...for himself. because stan cruelly hated himself, every part of his body, but he hated that part the most. his inner thighs, the valley that stretched between them...so he'd gotten kyle's name tattooed down there, so that when he was off on tour and missed his boyfriend terribly...he was with him.

always.

so that on his very worst days, when he felt the worst about himself, he could still see his super best friend. a precious skin-deep reminder that when the dysphoria hit and he felt like shit, craved a stiff drink and the razor blade winked…that when he felt falsely ugly...

...someone thought he was truly beautiful.

and he was.

he was really...and truly beautiful.

everyday. every second. even now. especially now. and god, what kyle wouldn't do to place his lips in that spot right there, anywhere, everywhere! because kyle couldn't say i love you and they weren't married, no, not in the traditional sense, but even so, kyle went to temple, a place of sacred worship & recited his vows every night.

every stroke, every sigh, every stretch of blessed skin.

i love you.

i love—

"because you're so worried about me, right, kyle?"

stan sneers, holding his name like a knife between teeth.

"—because you love me, right?"

he spit and twist it.

it was twisted. and kyle feels those spiteful syllables split him open like shrapnel. he gasps like stan had shot him, grasping the hem of his shirt so hard that it hurt, like a little kid clinging to his mother's skirt.

so scared she would leave.

so scared she would go, begging

don't go.

please don't go.

please, please, please don't g—

"NO! i—i do! stan, i do!”

kyle tries to argue but nearly breaks his neck nodding, with his shrill voice weak and watery and wanting.

“baby—BABY! i do, i DO! i really do! i—I LO—“

but the words wouldn't come.

kyle was banging on the wall, iron clad and impenetrable, he fought and shouted, kicked and screamed and still...nothing would come.

he couldn't say it. he couldn't FUCKING say it!

why...why?

Why?

WHY?!

he had never wanted to cry before but he could feel it in the back of his throat. he wants to come out. the little boy he'd trapped back there. but he couldn't be that big again, that small...that pathetic. so he bites down HARD. harder than he'd even bitten before and thrashes his cheek with his teeth, the taste of blood filling his mouth.

and for a moment...he feels dizzy...

because the blood tastes like metal.

like stan.

just like sta—

"save it, mi sabelotodo."

stan sniffs and lifts his head up slowly. his damp bangs are stuck to his forehead, the tips just barely kissed with bleach, mere whispers of the boy they wanted him, those beautiful dark roots growing with him into the man he wanted to be. whose wonderful face was flushed with frustration, whose kind, bright blue eyes were...

god, all kyle had wanted was for stan to look at him. but it gores him; it guts him. it carves him; it cuts him.

it was wrong. it was all wrong!

he took it back. he took it all back!

take me back, baby.

he wants to plead, while his lip shakes and bleeds.

stanley, PLEASE take me ba—

then, in one foul swoop, the boy with the bag shrugs his shoulders and kyle's hand crumples back down onto the couch. broken. lifeless.

"—save it for someone you actually love."

#anyways hope i die #actually tho bc this was so poorly written oh my god #i am in pain i am sorry i wanted this to be not bad #i'll proof it and fix it later smh #BUT I WANTED YALL TO HAVE IT #ANYWAYS I HATE MY LIFE SO BAD I HATE IT HERE #also stans spicy lil inner thigh kyle tattoo is important to me #hot boy self care behavior #WHICH EVEN IF IT WASNT #THATS OKAY BC KYLE TAKES REALLY GOOD CARE OF HIM AND LOVES HIM SO MUCH EVEN THO HE CANT SAY IT #MAAAAAAAAN #WERE IN HELL #ANYWAYS #jerseys perspective makes me wanna kword myself so bad like hes so desperate and loving and sad and i LOVE HIM #BABY ITS GONNA BE OKAY :((((#mi sabelotodo WAS VIIIIIIIIOLENT #LIKE OH MY GOOOOOOOD #i fixed it so the tenses are right now #im so bad at that idk why i did present tense im insane sorry #we know this we sometimes love this #I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING THIS I LOVE ANGST #I LOVE WRITING AAA IM SMILING IM SO HAPPY #LIKE IM SAD BUT IM HAPPY IM WRITING EEEE

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