This is for all the words I cannot say.
This is for.... Myself. This is for everything I could not say, because even though I could write you a thousand words on any topic and even though I could write a billion more that wouldn't be able to amount to how much the callouses on my fingers have seen I could not voice them. This is for my dying voice and my clogged throat, because I miss being able to describe what a feeling was like without having to stutter or lose all the words, I miss being able to open my mouth and unclog all the words that drowned my mind. This is for every moment I have ever felt truly alone, whether it was in the middle of another sleepless night or talking to you and you not hearing.
This is for the misinterpretation of sadness. Whether it's yours or... mine. This is for the emptiness in all our chests, which is all different and can only be expressed in our own individual ways. This is for all the stories I have wrote that could never end happily despite how many happy endings I seem to receive, and how many others don't get to receive. This is for all of us who get access to what others don't, as cliché as that sounds. Because you probably haven't heard it enough. (Because I haven't heard it enough.)
This is for how much I hate saying the wrong thing, for the wrong things to come out of my throat and the right things out of the ink from my pen. This is for how much I hate being silenced for having too much when all I want to tell you about is how much more I want to give, for all the times where I felt like it wasn't enough when everything was far too much, where everything spills out of my hands and stains. Because for everything that stains there is always something that can easily clean it away. This is for every tear I have shed throughout the years from stress and frustration, because I can never seem to get certain things right, and it is beyond painful. This is for being confused and knowing that we are all collectively confused and have been for decades, for our forgotten planet amongst thousands of dead ones. For our moon that is so interesting it got a boring name, for music that others find distasteful and I find beautiful. This is for the others who haven't found justice and for us who have, because this has never been about just me, and has never been about just you.
This is for every time you got lost or you felt excited, for every time you found joy in a scribble or a word or a line or the click of a mouse or the voice of someone else, because sadness and frustration is not the only thing that needs to be felt. This is for every emotion you can feel, because that is extraordinary, and taken for granted. This is not for you. This is not for me.
This is for us.
