The master chef and execs of a global food company just ate my food and said they love it omg
Sometimes, I let myself prod at the hurt in the back of my mind, a huge, unrecognizable lump of tears and sobs that has never ceased to baffle me from the moment of its conception. And sometimes the despair tightens its hold, rolls me like beads of mercury between the unfathomable fingers of fate, and I let myself be dragged along.
Sometimes, I let myself look at his pictures again. They don’t capture him well—how can Adonis’ image be transcribed into pixels on a screen or blots of ink on lonely pages? How can they trace the way the light curves around his face, too shy to place itself on his proper visage, and how can anything but feeble memory recall the way he seemed formed of shadows and shades? I have no memento, for I allowed myself no memento—packed away in boxes in my childhood room, discarded in that pile of sentiments in the basement of Pierson College, left behind in the country where we shared the best part of our time together. My memento is his image seared behind my eyelids, a murky form beneath coarse cotton sheets and golden limbs turned pale gray in the darkness of his room, inquisitive eyes imploring me from beneath two thick fringes of inky lashes.
Sometimes, I let myself be tempted, the way a small child is tempted to plug her fingers into an electrical socket. Because pain trumps. Because we’re all a little addicted to tears and sobs. Because even for the most rational of minds, shared misery is preferable to loneliness.
Sometimes, I remind myself, I deserve better.