Emily Dickinson , in my opinion, is the perfect (although admittedly slightly cliche) poet for lonely fat girls.
A shower is the perfect place for crying. No one can hear you if you do it quietly, into a wash-cloth, with the water running.
How did your mother die?” asked Delk.“Car accident,” Katie replied, gazing out over the water. “She’d been to mass. A tire blew on the way home, and she was gone. I was nineteen, Pather’s age, when it...
