all i ever seem to do is write about love and heartache
as if my life consists of no more than boys and loneliness
as if i don’t care about anything else but not being alone, not being loved.
Fuck being so pathetic i cry myself to sleep writing my feelings on paper letting the tears smudge the ink thinking it’ll somehow be romantic enough to be worth it in the fucking first place.
i am better than this.
i am better than the loneliness and the hurt. i am better than the voices in my head that tell me no one is ever going to love me. i am better than not believing in myself.
i am a goddamn miracle created of mistakes and accidents, a miss-match of evolution that has gifted me with grief and pain and i must never forget that. i must never let this frail Fucking body give up on itself because i have so much potential and i will not waste it on Fucking boys and loneliness.