I DON'T GIVE A SHIT ABOUT YOUR MENTAL HEALTH

how could you say that to me?

I have a really bad memory. He doesn't like to behave. He sifts and sieves through information I do not care about, but when it comes to everything I love, he turns into a steel trap.

I still remember. The smell of fried bread first thing in the morning, bubbles across the surface confirming it had been cooked to perfection. The impatient clench of my stomach as I watched gorgeous globs of butter melt into that spongy dough, I had to bounce from foot to foot for fear I might explode! Once a year I got to enjoy this delicacy you conjured from four cheap ingredients, twice if I was lucky. So every bite was savored.

I still remember the enchantment, a river of stars flowing from your spot on the kitchen table to my head on the bunk when it was time for a bedtime story. Orpheus and Persephone behaved in ways I didn't fully understand, and in hindsight, I think maybe you were confused by them as well.

I still remember the robot. I was so excited when you revealed the box, a robotic elephant! The first of many projects, I thought. So I did my very best to perform well as we built it together, ravenous for this singular opportunity to reconnect, for a pinch of the magic that had vanished along with our boat... if I had known there wouldn't be a next time, I never would have picked up that fucking screwdriver.

This isn't written for consumption.
I'm not trying to make a point.
This is my emotional alchemy.

I loathe my parents, naturally. They've systematically broken me down. But what fuels that loathing is the love that haunts from every moment they made me happy and every moment that might have been that could have been.

This book will not be finished until I honor every facet of them.