I don't need anyone else to be happy, but it'd sure as fuck be nice.

 

One of the loneliest feelings are not being able to love for a long time.
It's better to have loved and have it all fucked up than to never have loved.
At all times we find ourselves comparing happiness to other.
Constantly telling ourselves 'I don't need anyone else to be happy, but it'd sure as fuck be nice.

Tell me.

I want you to tell me about every person you’ve ever been in love with. Tell me why you loved them, then tell me why they loved you. Tell me about a day in your life you didn’t think you’d live through. Tell me what the word “home” means to you and tell me in a way that I’ll know your mother’s name just by the way you describe your bed room when you were 8. See, I wanna know the first time you felt the weight of hate and if that day still trembles beneath your bones. 

Do you prefer to play in puddles of rain or bounce in the bellies of snow? And if you were to build a snowman, would you rip two branches from a tree to build your snowman arms? Or would you leave the snowman armless for the sake of being harmless to the tree? And if you would, would you notice how that tree weeps for you because your snowman has no arms to hug you every time you kiss him on the cheek? 

Do you kiss your friends on the cheek? Do you sleep beside them when they’re sad, even if it makes your lover mad? Do you think that anger is a sincere emotion or just the timid motion of a fragile heart trying to beat away its pain? See, I wanna know what you think of your first name. And if you often lie awake at night and imagine your mother’s joy when she spoke it for the very first time. 

I want you tell me all the ways you’ve been unkind. Tell me all the ways you’ve been cruel. See, I wanna know more than what you do for a living. I wanna know how much of your life you spend just giving. And if you love yourself enough to also receive sometimes. I wanna know if you bleed sometimes through other people’s wounds.

Something that has always bothered me is that my family never sits together on the dining table. 
My mom always says that when you eat is the one time you should be free to do whatever you want to.
We never let anyone disturb our meals. And it always bothered me because maybe sitting on a dining table and talking about ourselves and our days would've managed to keep my family together. 
We don't go out on vacations, or for movies or dinners together, we all live separate lives. And while most people come home to their families, we left home and came to live in a sad excuse for it every evening. 
Even now, when I go to people's houses and look at them eating on the dining table, all I'm thinking about is if they'd be together the same way if they sat in their rooms as they ate. 
Am I making sense? I hope I am.

10 steps to be a better writer.

1. Write.
See the girl with the red lips, blue eyes and thick black hair sitting in the corner of the coffee shop. Notice the way she chews on the back of her pencil and jots down one word after the other, line after line for hours. Watch her cry. Look at the way she delicately folds half torn pieces of paper into the back of her diary, shuts it and leaves. Look at the way the boy on the next table spends 5 minutes staring at the lipstick stains on her coffee mug. Do the same.
2. Realise you are shit at it.
You can’t pull off lipstick. It’s all over your teeth. Your hair isn’t even thick enough to be put into a bun. You spill coffee on your pages. The eraser on the back of your pencil crumbles into your mouth and you spit it into your..coffee mug. You don’t know how to look dreamy. You don’t even know enough words to dream of. The boy sitting next to you changes his table because you’re too..peppy. You don’t even have waterproof eyeliner. You look like a mess when you cry.
3. Think.
How to be just like her? How to be mysterious? She had scars on her wrists and tears in her eyes and the sides of her eyes didn’t crinkle when she smiled. But you want to be just like her.
4. Find a boy and convince yourself you love him.
He’s skinny, he hates the sunlight and he smokes cigarettes like he were sucking on a lollipop. Tell him you’re the same. Tell him you hate the sunlight and put up black curtains. Tell him you love cigarettes and burn your throat till you can’t talk. Tell him you love him. Tell him you’ll love him forever and don’t mean a single word you say. Kiss him like your life depends on it, but you’re a living corpse, don’t you see? You’re killing the person you once were.
5. Break his heart.
Carve the map of your lipstick stains into his frail anatomy. Rip his world apart in a single meet and tell him it’s the last time you’ll see him. Watch him drown his thoughts in alcohol and burn the taste of you out with nicotine, do not be sorry. You’re just trying to be a writer. This is your story.
6. Push everyone away.
People will tell you you’re wrong, ignore them. People will tell you’re mental, ignore them. This is your story, not theirs. This is your writing, not theirs. You’re the writer, not them. You are your only god. There is no god you can relate to.
7. Destroy yourself.
Quit your job, fall out of school, vandalise a fucking cop car and do not be sorry. Drown your tears in mascara and wear your vulnerability on your sleeve. Frequently, to confront the fire, the firefighters have to create a fire. Do not forget this.
8. Think.
There is nothing left to do. Everyone you were, is dead. Whatever you knew, you don’t. Everything you had, is gone. All the priorities have been put into place. Your house is a black sea. Your thoughts, your only paraphernalia. This is who you were destined to be. You are your own fucking creator.
9. Realise you’re shit.
You’re back in the coffee shop. The table at the corner is empty. You reek of misery, pain, and desperation. No one wants to look at you. Lipstick smeared, hair chopped, cheeks stained, neck bruised, this is your new reality. Notice the boy on the side table crying, ask him what’s wrong. Listen to him tell about you how his girlfriend, the girl with the red lips, blue eyes and thick black hair sitting in the corner of the coffee shop, used to fold unnoticed suicide letters into the back of her diary.
10. Write.
This is your fucking masterpiece.