I have too many feelings, they overflow and pour onto the ground muddying the feet of those closest to me. I collect the runoff in little jars and ferment them in the dark. People invited into my life will often rifle through my closet, searching for warmth or skeletons, and stumble upon these bitter preserves. Why do you keep such things, they say, and I tell them I was raised not to waste. It’s no wonder that you’re sick, they say, leaving me to marinate. One day I will have collected all I can and never feel empty again.
Karl bit the tip of his tongue off last summer during one of his seizures. There was nobody there to hold him down or help him out and he’s lucky he didn’t die. He’s been bitter ever since, on account of those being the only buds he has left to taste with. We all joke about it with him even though we know he doesn’t like it. Dylan always salts Karl’s beers if he leaves them unattended. That used to make me laugh, but Karl doesn’t smile anymore and the whole thing leaves a sour taste in my mouth.