Sometimes I feel like she deserves a best friend who is just a little more special.

It won't matter if nobody ever thinks I'm pretty (although sometimes I wish, just for a second, that somebody would)

But if you do believe, then you already know all about magic.

The Wilds aren't safe anymore.

Poetry isn't like any writing I've ever heard before. I don't understand all of it, just bits of images, sentences that appear half-finished, all fluttering together like brightly colored ribbons in the wind.

We all need mantras, I guess - stories we tell ourselves to keep us going.

I know the past will drag you backward and down, have you snatching at whispers of wind and the gibberish of trees rubbing together, trying to decipher some code, trying to piece together what was broken. It's hopeless. The past is nothing but a weight. It will build inside you like a stone.