A small bit of love to fourteen year olds, because I can’t tell fourteen year old me.
Be fourteen, and don’t let anyone tell you not to be. Cry in the middle of the night over a poorly conceived text, or an un-received one. Cry because they cut your hair all wrong. Cry and be fourteen, and let things hurt you, and don’t let ANYONE tell you their pain is greater, because to you, your pain is beautiful and powerful and scary and the worst thing you’ve ever faced. Feel empathy for the third world, but also delight in things of this world like nail polish and new clothes and harry potter and glitter. Write terrible poetry to rip up later. Take stupid selfies and be worried you’re gay and fall in love with hot strangers. Be desperate to grow up. Worry about everything. Be powerful, and different. Be diffident, and conform, and make yourself happy and make yourself unhappy, and fall in love with yourself at fourteen.
Be powerful, and different.