If you let hope inside, it takes you over. It feeds on your insides and uses your bones to climb and grow. Eventually it becomes the thing that is your bones, that holds you together. Holds you up until you don't know how to live without it anymore. To pull it out of you would kill you entirely.

I am trapped in glass and I want to break out and breath deep but I´m too afraid that it will hurt.

The beauty of dystopia is that it lets us vicariously experience future worlds - but we still have the power to change our own.

And it is strange that absence can feel like presence.

Reading the situation correctly is part of getting through it safely.

I'm just a butterfly, a mourning cloak, sealed inside a cocoon with blnd eyes and stiky wings. And suddenly I wonder if the cocoons sometimes do not open, if the butterfly inside is ever simply not strong enough to break through.

Being a teen is past for me. Worrying about the world and my place in it is not.