I have known. 

I have played in pink while having skeletons in my closet and monsters under my bed. I have known how to be normal. While not. 

I have given scars while healing my own. I have healed scars while slicing myself open. I have known how to give. And take. 

I have seen where your eyes flicker when you think no one is noticing. I have been the only thing that crosses your mind when you are drunk. I have been in shadows. And out of them. 

I have made you see red in black. I have known how to make you dread the colours. And love the nightmares. 

I have leashed your demons and made them fall in love with mine. 

I have known how to make you believe in heaven and hell. With the scribes on your back. 

Write

I don’t write for myself. I write for the girl in my neighbourhood who wants so desperately to get away but stay all the same. I write for the girl I saw the other day with smudged mascara and broken heels but trying to find her way back home. I write for the boy I almost had who was scared to death of revealing his feelings to anyone. I write for the girl who fell for someone’s passion without actually knowing them at all. 

I write for those who have kissed too many strangers, who have broken too many needles, whose ears can’t stop ringing with the clanking of bottles. 

I don’t write about coincidences and butterflies in the stomach and boys with puppy eyes. 

I throw curses around like they are the only means of survival. I burn the paper in hopes that maybe someone out there would know; how words sting. On your tongue. On your fingers.