March 30, 2017
Can you hear me?
Good.
I write. I write about cliché romances between two people—but not people you'd accept. I write about equality and hope and forgiveness and mental illnesses. You'd scorn me for even thinking it would be a good idea. I'm sorry.
I write about little worlds where I can disappear and only come out when I'm ready, or where I can scream and swear as much as I want and nobody can stop me. It helps.
I write and I don't want to stop. I want to sell a million copies someday when I'm a published author but you'd still never understand. I want to live under bridges and beg for my food if it means I can still write. Sometimes I want to write forever.
I think you understand that much.
I write memories and wishes and I don't think I can hide this from you anymore. I don't want to tell you because I think you'll hate me. Or maybe I'm afraid of myself being this way. That has to be it because you're loving and gave me a home for years. I couldn't wish for more.
I want to be this way.
I want to write.
I want to make somebody I'm not—a brave, open, loving, timid, scared, happy, honest, forgiving person. A boy who loves somebody and nobody can stop him. Maybe I'm writing what I wanted, what I still want.
I want to write a romance.
I want you to understand, but I don't want to tell you.
I want to change the world.
I want to be anonymous.
I want to write a novel between two boys. Two boys loving each other's worst imperfections and two boys loving each other's best perfections. I want to love a girl. I want to so badly.
But I can't.
