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.