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I am a hoarder by nature. When one spends a lifetime being kept from something, he latches onto to as much of it as possible at the very first chance. The child in me surfaces every now and then and I hoard, I collect, I overspend, I overbuy at every chance. You have to understand, food becomes much more than a neccessity to someone who has starved their whole life. Good choices have never felt all that good to me, for if they are infact good, why do they lead to so much suffering. And what good can suffering do anyway.

I am a hoarder. I like to keep proof of my existence, I collect tickets and wrappers and pamplets and dead flowers and letters and anything that says I am real. Maybe I keep these as proof that I mean something. To people, to places, to the world. The irony is, these proof are what I run to destroy at the first chance of abandonment. I burn pages, I tear postcards, I deleted pictures, I erase proof that it was real, that it mattered, that it was there and then it was gone. That it hurt.

I never regret it either, not anymore than I regret the cause. I try to convince the world that I am capable of love. I fool it too. But I am deliberate destruction and impulsive ignition. I claim to be full of love. But the truth is, any love I’ve ever felt is shrewed by nature. It’s flawed. It’s selfish even when it’s selfless. I expect love to pay back it’s rent. I expect love to work according to my whims.

I tell people I love them. I am not always convinced I really do. But what do I know for sure? What is love anyway ? Everyone I love leaves me feeling disgusted with it. Everytime I love, I am shook awake to the realisation that it was all in my head. That none of it matters. That I am small and needy and just a girl.

Somedays I am convinced I am not even capable of empathy, let alone love.