I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

Life is much different from the days when there were lilies in my mother’s garden, and all my secrets fit into a paper cup.

But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.

But there’s no such thing as free. There are only different and more horrible ways to be enslaved.

Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.

It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.