𝐒𝐨𝐮𝐥 𝐓𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐬

I'm a writer, unsatisfied with real emotions, eagerly imposing imagined ones upon myself.
Because I remember everything so vividly, my heart shows no mercy-I can't sleep, I can't cry; I only spill blood onto paper.
I'm not sure if that makes me a good or a bad person. I haven't forgotten my past; I only try to romanticize it.
I love the pain; I want to have children, but making decisions is hard, I can't hold on to a romantic relationship, I suffer from nostalgia, though I don't drink.
I cry and lie, and often wish for death, even though I'm terrified of it and of dead things.
I want to love, and at the same time, I sacrifice everything for my career.
I'm stubborn and vulgar, but I read books.
And I have teachers who believe I can become a great writer, while strangers read about my humiliating, deep, foolish, excessive, obsessive, intense, and raw way of loving love in my books, assuming the Machiavellian scenarios of my writing without finding them outside of it.