I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life.
She looks like a china doll, observed Grandfather as we departed. I will break just as easily, I muttered.
He says a million things without saying a word. I have never heard a more eloquent silence.
Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren’t.
Cold and silence. Nothing quieter than snow. The sky screams to deliver it, a hundred banshees flying on the edge of the blizzard. But once the snow covers the ground, it hushes as still as my heart.
What do I want? The answer to that question does not exist.
Look at the stupid, poor people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people. Look at the stupid, poor, burned-out people, look at their dead baby. It’s death porn for the masses.
A breath of steam trickles out, filled with the sobs of a grown woman breaking into girl-sized pieces.
She offered herself to the big, bad wolf and didn’t scream when he took the first bite.
I am learning how to be angry and sad and lonely and joyful and excited and afraid and happy.
Who wants to recover? It took me years to get that tiny. I wasn’t sick; I was strong.
We swore sacred oaths to be strong and to save the planet and to be friends forever.
No, I am never setting foot in this house again it scares me and makes me sad and I wish you could be a mom whose eyes worked but I don’t think you can.
Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl, Lia-Lia, caught in between the worlds. You’re a ghost with a beat- ing heart. Soon you’ll cross the border and be with me. I’m so stoked. I miss you wicked.
Death is funny, when you think about it. Everybody does it, but nobody knows how, exactly how.
The stars whirled above us and the firecrackers blazed. The moon stood watch as drops of blood fell, careless seeds that sizzled in the snow.
I’m the girl who trips on the dance floor and can’t find her way to the exit. All eyes on me.
For one moment we are not failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays; we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds.
I am a gluttonous, gorging failure. A waste. My body isn’t used to high-sugar carbs laced with witchcraft. It can barely cope with soup and crackers.