i think books are some sort of extension of me. mostly because the books that i have are gifts from my mom. she’s given me some really shit books before. i used to get so mad at her when i didn’t like them. i would ask her to give me my time back. she’d always just say that if i could just find one good line in a bad book, and then it’d be worth my time. i always finished bad books after that, because i loved telling her my one good line.

one good line. i used to do this with my brother sometimes, when he was younger and was having a hard time at school, focusing at class. so i’d always tell him to find one good line from whatever book they read that week. he used to take it very seriously, it was cute. and it was nice to still be able to do it with someone, even though he moved out and i did, too. we barely talk anymore. and i miss my brother. i miss when we were close. i miss when i could tell him i love him without it being a whole thing, and i miss when we lived in the same house and we felt like a team.

and i want things to stop changing once i finally get used to them. i want things to last. i think there’s something ugly inside of me, something broken, something evil. i think i destroy the things i love because i never learned how to nurture them. i think i’ll always be like this. i think there’s no fixing me. i think i’m being punished. i think i could love someone one day. i think i could destroy them just the same.