I hate my body Hate what it remembers. Hate what it let him do.

The lack of human voices really gets to me. I never realized that we need to talk with other people just to know that we exist. That we matter. Loneliness is a howling, empty cavern inside of me that just keeps growing.

My scars show pain and suffering, but they also show my will to survive. They're part of my history that'll always be there.

I think you've got to get out whatever's hurting you through your art, so it doesn't twist you up inside.

You can see when someone's been hurt the way I was. It's obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it.

If I don’t do what feels right to me, what I need and want to do, then am I really living?

I hate my body Hate what it remembers. Hate what it let him do.