I prefer writing fiction, about people who don’t exist and people who I can create. I don’t really enjoy writing about myself, nor raw emotion that much. It’s easier to face imaginary heartbreaks than real. And I don’t really like myself that much. To be honest, I’m flawed and kind of fake. Although, I don’t know if it’s really fake or just exploration because I can’t work out who the hell I am, or what I stand for, or what I’m doing. So I’m wearing different faces, and dressing in different clothes, and using different words, ones that are barely me. But then, I don’t really know. And I’m terrified people will see right through me. I think being hated is easier than liked because at least if they hate me, I don’t care what they think. When I’m close to people, or around people, I want them to think I’m decent, I’m good, I’m anything better than a gum stuck to the bottom of their shoes. It’s just easier to keep my distance and hold my head up, stand in the corner on my own, do the whole me against the world routine that teenagers wear so well. I’ll say I don’t get lonely and say I don’t need nothing from no one, and I’ll wear it like my own skin. I’ll look like an idiot, and play a fool. I don’t know why I’m writing this, but I am because my brain is falling out my ears tonight. I’m scared, because I’m telling myself everything is going to be okay, that it’s alright, but it doesn’t feel that way right now.