FROM THE COLLECTION: And we call that love?
I thought I had a refined taste.
Local eco foods.
Yeah, I thought I had a taste.
I thought I was resourceful.
Yeah, I thought I was resourceful.
I walk into a department called “men”;
I forget about my refined taste, resourcefulness, and common sense.
Off of the shelves of ingredients, I pick mostly misfits.
One eats burgers all day long.
One is even harder traumatized than me.
One is always on “mute” mode.
One can’t recognize basic emotions.
One inner navigation broke down.
I sit in the kitchen, staring at those strange ingredients out of which I wanted to prepare a delicious memory for two.
And I think to myself, “What the fuck were you thinking, doing groceries? Were you high on MDMA, or did you forget how to read labels?!“
I remind myself I still need to learn that:
Out of distance, I can’t build intimacy;
Out of avoidance, I can’t grow trust;
And out of trauma, I can’t make medicine.