Whatever happened to me just now has gotten to me, broken past the fragile shell I've built. More than my memory is gone. My soul has wings that beat to a heart I don't understand and I see things, feel things that I know aren't from here, but that are so real.

I knew I was having a panic attack. I hadn't had one in a while, though, and I'd forgotton how they made everything like it- and I- was going to fall apart. How they reminded me of how trapped I was.

My name is Danielle. I'm eighteen. I've been stealing things for as long as I can remember

I think love is huge, overwhelming. I think it's terrible and beautiful.

I think you’re the saddest person I’ve ever met. It’s like you’re drowning in it.

I don’t know, shifted a little or something, smoothed down–people would think of me the way they think of Dave, and everything would always be perfect. I would be perfect.

It's bullshit. It's so easy to label people, to look at a list of symptoms and say, "This is who you are. This is what you are.