Stripped Bare.

I didn't know who I was. Not literally. I knew my name. It's Macey. I'm sixteen, turning seventeen in a few weeks. But then what? I didn't know who I was, or who I had been or who I was going to be. I was having an existential crisis, and I was near insane. I did know one other thing. I wanted to write. I wanted to write about the world, and the people who stay up late at night and go to work or college the next day with bags under their eyes. I want to write about the girls who's veins are filled with stories of survival, and who's lips taste like coffee and cigarettes on a cold Sunday morning. It was an art, and I wanted to be the artist. But I could not fathom the right compilation of words to write. I wanted to write about the world. But the world as it really is. Stripped bare, raw and grey, like the people who inhabited it.