I can grow. I look at my homely sketch. It doesn't need anything. Even through the river in my eyes I can see that. It isn't perfect and that makes it just right.
I am getting better at smiling when people expect it.
I am an iceberg drifting towards the edge of the map
Bologna girl, that's me.
Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.
Are you a man-whore? I asked as the loudest group of them teetered away on their high heels. (High heels? Really? At seven thirty in the morning? Shouldn't you actually have breasts before you start w...
A member of the Archery Club tries to say that we are all foreigners and we should give the country back to the Native Americans, but she's buried under disagreement.
Want to go out with me? ??? chill, im not gay ???? r u shur you’re not my type G wats yr typ? people who can spell
Thoughts hidden there? If she can, what will she do? Call the cops? Send me to the nuthouse? Do I want her to? I just want to sleep. The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, i...
Who cares what the color means? How do you know what he meant to say? I mean, did he leave another book called Symbolism in My Books? If he didn't, then you could just be making all of this up. Does a...
When you’re alive, people can hurt you. It’s easier to crawl into a bone cage or a snowdrift of confusion. It’s easier to lock everybody out.
We held hands when we walked down the gingerbread path into the forest, blood dripping from our fingers. We danced with witches and kissed monsters. We turned us into wintergirls, when she tried to le...
Underground, pale seeds roll over in their sleep. Starting to get restless. Starting to dream green.
This girl shivers and crawls under the covers with all her clothes on and falls into an overdue library book, a faerie story with rats and marrow and burning curses. The sentences build a fence around...
They were coming, on wings from far away, all the pictures and voices, smells, tastes, all the everything from the past was flying toward me as fast as it could.
The whole point of not talking about it, of silencing the memory, is to make it go away.
The warped perception of time is a hallmark of trauma.
The room does not smell like apple. It smells like frog juice, a cross between a nursing home and potato salad. The Back Row pays attention. Cutting dead frogs is cool.
The one good thing about being kind of shy is that nobody bugs you when you want to be left alone.
The next time you work on your trees, don't think about trees. Think about love, or hate, or joy, or rage-- whatever makes you feel something, makes your palms sweat or your toes curl.