Kayla Driscoll

“The boy who wears his comic books like armor often sits
alone. He is more comfortable with Iron Man and his
own thoughts than he will ever be with a woman.
Because of his nervous ticks, no matter how long they
are together, she will never feel commonplace to him.
She will always know she is special.
The boy who wears his comic books like armor
tries to tell her that he loves her every day.
She does not understand.
When he says, You remind me of Psylocke,
he is not saying he actually thinks
she is a scantily clad assassin.
He is just saying, Damn girl, you must be psychic.
How else could you always know the right thing
to make me smile? You have to be a ninja.
How else could you have stolen my heart so easily?
He is saying, Dammmmmmmmnnnnnn girl,
you absolutely have to be Psylocke!
She is the only character I have ever read about
who is as graceful and daring as you are.
She does not understand.
The boy who wears his comic books like armor
is not a good lover. The way he barely touches
her makes her feel unattractive.
Like he is only doing this because she wants him to.
This could not be further from the truth.
He is simply treating her like the only thing
that has ever been this important to him before:
comic books.
He removes her clothes like he would
the slipcover from a brand new issue,
as careful not to wrinkle her clothing
as he is not to damage the plastic.
One day, she will leave him because feeling special isn’t
as important as feeling loved. He does love her.
She can’t understand. He will spend the rest of his life
wishing he were Peter Parker, knowing that if he had a
mask to remove, then, just like Mary Jane, she would be
with him forever. But he doesn’t have a mask to remove,
just an awkward smile.
He hopes that one day
that’s enough.”
― Jared Singer, Forgive Yourself These Tiny Acts of Self-Destruction