Kettle thingies. Yum.

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.

It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.

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

Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

The madness of youth made me unafraid.

I miss something I never even had.