Where Every Scroll is a New Adventure
when people ask me what I’m particularly good at, I want to tell them, “ruining lives”. it has become such a niche talent of mine that instead of overwhelming shame and disappointment in myself, I only shut down these days, because my body has now been inundated. I ruin lives like it is something I was born for – to make my father cry and my mother develop a chronic illness; for my grandparents to feel unloved and for my aunts and uncles to regret loving me; for ruining my therapist’s weekend-nights; for my friends to feel like they’re giving too much and not getting enough; for never doing justice to my pup. I was told that since the day I was born, I never drank milk – if drinking milk is to sustenance as love is to living, I was and am and will continue to be an abject failure at both; there is something hidden in this analogy of milk: a baby is born with the natural inclination for drinking milk, as is a human being their capacity for love; it is then unfortunate that I have repeatedly disappointed my family’s expectations of following both. I am now lactose intolerant, and it seems as if I am intolerant of love as well. I’m not usually an essentialist, but even I can see that I lack something essential; something that should be here isn’t, though there is something darker and uglier and tar-like making my chest cave in on itself like a black hole, in its place. it is hard for me to process love, it is hard for me to consume milk; when you say I don’t hold space for your love, I want to ask you why you believe I can, why you believe it is a choice and not a deficit; because the only love I can accept is in the form of lactose-free milk, not milk powder, and while many have packets of the latter at home, they don’t go through the trouble of buying the former: milk powder is nothing but milk in its powdered form, and while easier to take, doesn’t make it much better; your love is easier to take when you’re funny and kind, but it does not make it easier for me digest. and it is so silly, but so crucial. new-born babies don’t have a personality, and if they do seem to, they must be fundamentally flawed – no one ever tells you how hard it is to be a whole human being when you’ve been considered a fundamentally flawed baby. nobody ever tells you how to learn to love; if love is an action, and actions speak louder than words, and it is actions which give meaning to life, is it surprising that I ruin lives through inaction? I talk about caring for people the way they want to be cared for, not the way you want them to care for you; at the same time, I do not serve milk to my guests, it doesn’t even pass my mind to offer, the option just does not exist for me – which is very curious indeed.
A journal
A coat hanger
And then goodbye
After six months its finally soaking into my thick skull like
Acid
Absent
Abstract metal and Boston cream doughnuts
Abandoned
Adding on to heartbreak
Awe inspiring were your
Analogies
Allergies
A notepad
A pen
A plan without me
A broken heart
An open heart
All the time
At night,
Alouette sings
Adieu, to you
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Joey Richter is to Andrew Garfield, as Steve Urkel is to Stefan Urquelle. Discuss!