Inquisitive people look me dead in the eyes and ask, "Why do you write?" My words printed on their mind. My eyes flutter as my head racks my cluttered brain for one definite answer. I want to flippantly spurt, "Why do you ask? Does it matter?" My mouth however, forms gentle words.

Let me start by saying this...

To me, writing is practically exchangeable with basic human functions like breathing. What you breathe in as oxygen, I inhale through literature, each exhale documented with a pen.

I let my voice wander free because I know there are thousands of people choking on their tongues, their unsaid words piling around them,haunting them, quickly closing in. Regardless of their situation, I write to give them my voice because silence is painful when your inner monologue screams.

I'm writing because at 18, my words are stuck and need release. Words can be beautiful, eloquent and free, but for every soft, delicate sentence, there's a bitter line, too much alive, scratching, fighting its way up my throat. I write for my safety and sanity, to keep them appeased.

I write for my hopeless reflection at 2 a.m. when my eyes are sunken and my body is worn. I write for the mirrors who see similar faces and can't help but reflect the truth.

I write for the lips who mocked me, who scoffed and laughed because writing is pointless, and at one point, I was too.

I'm writing for the green-eyed boy who called me at dawn to compare my eyes to the magic of each new sunrise. A deadly destruction, your lies ignited an insuppressible fire.

I write for my parents because my mother deserves to know I'm OK, and as for you, dad, I know you would have done the same.

My words are recovery and solitude, both necessary and impossible. I breathe them in and write them down for otherwise I'd choke and they'd have the satisfaction of winning.

As for you, I'll write you the world.

For you-

yes,

you.

You're reading this to feel something.

Me?

I'm writing to feel anything.