teenage literature

Do not allow him to consume you. If he does not call, go to sleep. If he does not message, put your phone away and have a fantastic day anyway. If he acts distant when you are with him and refuses to tell you what is wrong, don’t wait for him, go home and do something you love. If he tries to insinuate you do not need your friends now that you have him, spend more time with your friends. If he tries to teach you a lesson through the silent treatment, ignore him completely.

If he plays with your feelings constantly, walk away from him. If he acts like your body is his entitlement when you are not ready, walk away from him. If he says terrible, unforgivable things and threatens to leave you after every argument, walk away from him. If he forbids you from doing anything you love, walk away from him. If he claims ownership of your accomplishments, walk away from him. If he demeans you or disrespects your being a girl and refuses to stop when you tell him it hurts, walk away from him.


I cannot stress this enough, you live for yourself first. He is a secondary character in the story of your life. Do not allow him to turn you into a secondary character in your own book.

—  Nikita Gill, Advice for Teenage Girls Finding Their Way Through Love.

“Why are we doing this?” he whispers. His voice is shaking.

His voice never shakes. He never cries.

“You’re leaving,” he tries to reason. “Why are we putting off the inevitable? Why are we giving ourselves even more reasons to break when…” he falters.

The pain in her chest grows a little bit more, just like it has every day since she met him, but her voice is strong. “Because loving you right now, right here, in this moment, is worth it. It’s worth breaking for.”

“Loving you is worth every piece I’ll lose,” she breathes.

—  For you - you will always be worth it, 16/07/2016

I think Aristotle and Dante changed the way I see life? This book is so pure I can’t even express my feelings about it, such a masterpiece! As someone who’s antisocial and doesn’t have any friends it really appealed to me and at some phases I was like, Dante is such a free person, I can totally relate. But at the same time Ari is not a talker and stuff, I can totally relate as well. I think I fall in love with these characters, I can’t stop thinking about them. Can’t wait for the sequel or a future movie adaption, why not? How cool would that be?

“What scares you about this?”

“I don’t know, I suppose it’s because I had a shit day at work and usually I would just want to go home and crawl into bed and cry and order pizza in and watch sad movies but you make me want to talk about my day and what happened and why it was so bad and, for somebody who hates talking about themselves, that’s fucking terrifying, you know? Finding someone you want to talk to, like really talk to, is scary because you don’t know how long they’ll bother listening.”

—  Because I could talk to you forever, 24/11/2015
That was our mistake, I think. One of many mistakes. To believe that boys were acting with a logic that we could someday understand. To believe that their actions had any meaning beyond thoughtless impulse. We were like conspiracy theorists, seeing portent and intention in every detail, wishing desperately that we mattered enough to be the object of planning and speculation. But they were just boys. Silly and young and straightforward; they weren’t hiding anything.
—  Emma Cline, The Girls.

“It’s sad, isn’t it.”

“What is?”

“That you can never really see someone falling in love with you but when that person starts to fall out of love with you, my god, it hits you square in the gut.”

—  And they fall out of love a whole lot faster than they fall in love, 25/02/2016
2

       “Something I cannot name passes between them, and then Pip’s lips           are on Fee’s in a deep kiss, as if they feed on one another, their                     fingers entwined in each other’s hair. And suddenly, I understand                 what I must have always known about them—the private talks, the               close embraces, the tenderness of their friendship.”

Here in America, in every single state there are standards for every subject, a collection of lessons that the teacher’s required to teach by the end of the term.

But the greatest lessons you will ever teach us will not come from your syllabus.
The greatest lessons you will ever teach us, you will not even remember.

You never told us what we weren’t allowed to say; we just learned how to hold our tongues. Now somewhere in America, there is a child holding a copy of Catcher in the Rye, and there is a child holding a gun. But only one of these things has been banned by their state government, and its not the one that can rip through flesh.
It’s the one that says ‘fuck you’ on more pages than one.

Because we must control what the people say, how they think, and if they want to become the overseer of their own selves, then we’ll show them a real one.

And somewhere in America, there is a child sitting at his mother’s computer, reading the homepage of the KKK’s website. That is open to the public. But that child will have never read To Kill a Mockingbird because its school has banned it for its use of the n-word.

Maya Angelou is prohibited because we’re not allowed to talk about rape in school. We were taught that just because something happens, doesn’t mean you are to talk about it.

They build us brand new shopping malls so that we’ll forget where we’re really standing

on the bones of the Hispanics,

on the bones of the slaves,

on the bones of the Native Americans,

on the bones of those who fought just to speak.

Trans-Continental Railroad to Japanese internment camps, there are things missing from our history books. But we were taught that it is better to be silent than to make them uncomfortable.

Somewhere in America, a private school girl searchs for hours through boutiques trying to find the prom dress of their dreams. While kids on the south side spend hours searching through lost and found, cause winter’s coming soon and that’s the only jacket they have.

Kids are late to class for working the midnight shift, they give awards for best attendance, but not for keeping your family off the streets.

Kids will call your music is ghetto, they will tell you you don’t talk right, then they’ll get in the back of a car with all their friends, singing bout how they’re bout that life and we can’t stop.

Somewhere in America, schools are promoting self-confidence, while they whip out their scales and shout out your body fat percentage in class. While heftier girls are hiding away, and the slim-fit beauties can’t help but giggle with pride.

The preppy kids go thrift shopping because they think it sounds real fun, but we go because that’s all we got money for cause mama works for the city, mama only gets paid once a month.

Somewhere in America, a girl is getting felt up by a grown man on the subway. She’s still in her school uniform, and that’s part of the appeal. It’s hard to run in knee socks and mary janes and all her male teachers know it too.

Coaches cover up star players raping freshmen after the dance. Women are killed for rejecting dates. But God forbid I bring my girlfriend to prom. A girl is black out drunk at the after party. Take a picture before her wounds wake her. How many pixels is your sanity worth? Whats’s a 4.0 to a cold jury?

What’d you learn in class today? Don’t walk fast, don’t speak loud, keep your hands to yourself, keep your head down, keep your eyes on your own paper. If you don’t know the answer, fill in C. Always wear earbuds when you ride the bus alone, if you feel like someone’s following you, pretend you’re on the phone.

The teacher never fails, only you do.

Every state in America, the greatest lessons are the ones you don’t remember learning.

—  Somewhere in America, Get Lit (Belissa Escobedo, Rhiannon McGavin, and Zariya Allen)
When caring stops becoming synonymous with hurting - that is when you have moved on.
—  Kinda really hoping this day comes some time soon, 11/04/2016
Someday, we’ll run into each other again, I know it. Maybe I’ll be older and smarter and just plain better. If that happens, that’s when I’ll deserve you. But now, at this moment, you can’t hook your boat to mine, because I’m liable to sink us both.
—  Gabrielle Zevin, Memoirs of a Teenage Amnesiac
Fluffy Romantic Poem

Music.
Motion.
Dancing with someone.
Someone you love.
Singing words into each other’s ears
quietly,
each too afraid to make a move.
Unsure and awkward.
But safe.
Comfortably swaying from side to side.
Six inches between two acne-covered faces.
Smiling shyly.
Tripping on oversized feet.
Quiet, stammered apologies.
Music dying down.
Letting go of each other.
Laughing softly.
Stealing not-so-covert glances at each other.
Hoping things went okay.
Talking.
Telling jokes and laughing until stomachs hurt.
Whispered secrets and giggles.
Brief silence.
Looking into each other’s eyes.
A fleeting moment of longing.
Wanting each other.
Not sexually.
No.
Jut wanting to be together.
Really, truly together,
even if it’s just for a moment
Then it disappears.
Things go back to how they were.
Singing 80’s pop  off-key.
Choking back tears during old Disney movies.
Tears falling, despite best efforts to keep them in -
it’s just a movie.
Chuckling and consolation.
A head falling onto a shoulder.
An arm cautiously slipping around a waist.
Eyes closing.
Two bodies,
resting together.
Away from the noise
and chaos
of the world they don’t have to inhabit for a short while 
At least, not consciously. 
Bleary eyes opening.
A feeling of calm.
Of comfort
And safety.
Together
…maybe.
~Fin~

It’s kinda cute and tentative. In my head it’s between two people that are probably freshmen in highschool, so they’re nearing the end of middle of the awkward puberty phase; still in it and it’s not that bad but still there. And they’re sorta in love and they don’t tell each other they just sorta know. They’re dorks and this is what I want in a relationship tbh - just shameless fluff. 

I’m not athletic. I’m not a goth or a cheerleader. I’m not treasurer or co-captain. I’m not gay and out and proud. I’m not the kid from Sri Lanka, not a triplet, a prep, a drunk, a genius, a hippie, a Christian, a slut, not even on of those super-Jewish girls with a yarmulke gang wishing everyone a happy Sukkoth. I’m not anything, this is what I realized to Al crying with my hands dropping the petals but holding this too tight to let go. I like movies, everyone knows I do – I love them – but I will never be in charge of one because my ideas are stupid and wrong in my head. There’s nothing different about that, nothing fascinating, interesting, worth looking at. I have bad hair and stupid eyes. I have a body that’s nothing. I’m too fat and my mouth is idiotic ugly. My clothes are a joke, my jokes are desperate and complicated and nobody else laughs. I talk like a moron, I can’t say one thing to talk to people that makes them like me, I just babble and sputter like a drinking fountain broken. My mother hates me, I can’t please her. My dad never calls and then calls at the wrong time and sends big gifts or nothing, and all of it makes me scowl at him, and he named me Minerva. I talk shit about everybody and then sulk when they don’t call me, my friends fall away like I’ve dropped them out of an airplane, my ex-boyfriend thinks I’m Hitler when he sees me. I scratch at places on my body, I sweat everywhere, my arms, the way I clumsy around dropping things, my average grades and stupid interests, bad breath, pants tight in back, my neck too long or something. I’m sneaky and get caught, I’m snobby and faking it. I agree with liars, I say whatnot and think that’s some clever thing. I have to be watched when I cook so I don’t burn it down. I can’t run four blocks or fold a sweater. I make out like an imbecile, I fool around foolishly, I lost my virginity and couldn’t even do that right, agreeing to it and getting sad and annoying afterward, clinging to a boy everyone knows is a jerk bastard asshole prick, loving him like I’m fucking twelve and learning the whole of life from a smiley magazine. I love like a fool, like a Z-grade off-brand romantic comedy, a loon in too much makeup saying things in an awkward script to a handsome man with his own canceled comedy show. I’m not a romantic, I’m a half-wit. Only stupid people would think I’m smart. I’m not something anyone should know. I’m a lunatic wandering around for scraps, I’m like every single miserable moron I’ve scorned and pretended I didn’t recognize. I’m all of them, every last ugly thing in a bad last-minute costume. I’m not different, not at all, not different from any other speck of a thing. I’m a blemished blemish, a ruined ruin, a stained wreck so failed I can’t see what I used to be. I’m nothing, not a single thing. The only particle I had, the only tiny thing raising me up, is that I was Ed Slaterton’s girlfriend, loved by you for like ten secs, and who cares, so what, and not anymore so how embarrassing for me. How wrong to think I was anyone else, like thinking grass satins make you a beautiful view, like getting kissed makes you kissable, like feeling warm makes you coffee, like liking movies make you a director. How utterly incorrect to think it any other way, a box of crap is treasures, a boy smiling means it, a gentle moment is a life improved. It’s not, it isn’t, catastrophic to think so, a pudgy toddler in a living room dreaming of ballerinas, a girl in bed star-eyed over Never By Candlelight, a nut thinking she is loved following a stranger in the street. There is not a movie star walking by, is what I know now, don’t follow her thinking so, don’t be ridiculously wrong and dream of an eighty-ninth birthday party celebrating feebleminded smattering ignorance. It’s gone. She died a long time ago, is the real truth of what slayed me in my chest and head and hands forever. There are no stars in my life. When Al dropped me home, exhausted and raw, to climb out over the garage and realize it all over again crying alone, there weren’t even stars in the sky. The last of the matches was the only light, all I had, and then those, those you gave me, you bastard, those were dead and nothing too.
—  Why We Broke Up, Daniel Handler (via dollhhouse)