Collage Zine

a love story

I have multiple lovers. I want to be honest about this upfront.

The first one you should know about is Typewriter. He’s passionate and decisive, interested in my silence only as something to fill. He’s the man at the end of the bar who isn’t looking at his phone. Who writes you actual letters, full sentences, no ellipses, no haha at the end to make sure you know he isn’t serious. He is always serious. Even when he’s funny, he’s serious. He commits to every word in a way that makes you want to be worth committing to. Which is either very romantic, or a lot of pressure, and on different days it’s both.

Oil Pastel is softer, younger. He leaves a mark on everything he touches, including things he has no business touching. He has strong opinions about my other relationships and expresses them by bleeding directly into them. I have a watercolor he ruined. I have it framed above my desk. I am that far gone.

Certain lovers are irresistible despite themselves. Watercolor remembers everything. Not just what I did, but what I considered doing. He will mention that thing I did in 2019 with a wet brush when I was rushing and thought it wouldn’t show. He will mention it in front of people. He will be smiling when he does.

And then there’s Collage *swoon*

Collage is the man who is several men, tastefully. He has a scar he won’t explain and a jacket that belonged to someone else first and looks better for it. He’s full of knowledge the way old houses are full of history; it’s just in there, in the walls, you feel it without being told. And he loves to be touched. Needs it, actually. It’s the one thing he’ll admit to needing.

You have to run your fingers along the edges to see where they overlap. You have to smooth things down, feel the thickness building as layers accumulate. It’s intimate. It’s hands-on. The more you give him, the more he becomes. That is the most addictive quality a person can have. He knows it, which is why I’ve never had the upper hand, which is why I keep coming back with more.

Other lovers require you to speak their language. They want credentials: the right brushes, the right paper, the right technique. Collage learns yours. Collage meets you where you are; on the floor surrounded by torn pages, feral, scissors in one hand, and a vague feeling that you’re about to figure something out. Collage doesn’t pit your bodega receipt against your Renaissance print and demand an explanation. Collage already sees it. Collage says: both. Collage says: more. Collage says: now kiss.

The only thing Collage refuses to handle on its own is the gluing. Why can’t the pieces just glue themselves? Can’t the materials just commit? Can’t they adhere on the strength of my vision alone?

No. I hace to apply pressure. Hold things down. Wait. The glue buckles the paper. Creates wrinkles I didn’t plan for and have learned to call texture. It gets on my shirt, the table, my face. It attracts dust and hair and paint. The glue becomes part of the piece whether I want it to or not.

So fine. I’ll do the gluing.

Collage is generous in other ways. He rewards hoarding, and this matters. It’s foreplay that lasts for years. Collage says: Yes, keep that. Save it. I know you don’t know why yet, but trust me. You hoard, gather, accumulate. This is the slow build. Then one day you sit down and you know exactly what goes next to what, and the release is immediate and complete.

I should tell you how Collage and I got together. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t even intentional. A painting went wrong, I was tired, and I put a piece of paper over the part I couldn’t fix and pressed it down with my thumb. That was it. That was us.

The thing I covered was better than the thing I’d made. It happened again the next time. And the next. I kept failing, and he kept showing up. The mistake became the best part. The patch became the point. What I was trying to hide turned out to be the door.

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