It is easier not to say anything. Shut your trap, button your lip, can it. All that crap you hear on TV about communication and expressing feelings is a lie. Nobody really wants to hear what you have to say.
I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don’t feel or look so stupid.
Sometimes I think high school is one long hazy activity: if you are tough enough to survive this, they’ll let you become an adult. I hope it’s worth it.
I knew how much it hurt to be the daughter of people who can’t see you, not even if you are standing in front of them stomping your feet.
I wanted to pull down a book, open it proper, and gobble up page after page.
I knit the afternoon away. I knit reasons for Elijah to come back. I knit apologies for Emma. I knit angry knots and slipped stitches for every mistake I ever made, and I knit wet, swollen stitches that look awful. I knit the sun down.
When people don’t express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
I can’t tell anymore when I’m asleep and when I’m awake, or which is worse.
I have survived. I am here. Confused, screwed up, but here. So, how can I find my way? Is there a chain saw of the soul, an ax I can take to my memories or fears?
Didn’t help to ponder things that were forever gone. It only made a body restless and fill up with bees, all wanting to sting something.
I am not going to think about it. It was ugly, but it’s over, and I’m not going to think about it.
Be careful what you wish for. There’s always a catch.
I am locked into the mirror and there is no door out.
I understood what triggered her earthquakes, most of them.
So, she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.
The best time to talk to ghosts is just before the sun comes up.
I open a paperclip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this. A whimper, a peep? I draw little window cracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting.
I don’t know what I’m doing in the next five minutes and she has the next ten years figured out. I’ll worry about making it out of ninth grade alive. Then I’ll think about a career path.
He doesn’t see my breasts or my waist or my hips. He only sees the nightmare.
Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.