My English teacher has no face. She has uncombed stringy hair that droops on her shoulders. The hair is black from her part to her ears and then neon orange to the frizzy ends. I can't decide if she had pissed off her hairdresser or is morphing into a monarch butterfly. I call her Hairwoman.

Who wants to recover? It took me years to get that tiny. I wasn't sick; I was strong.

I'm the only one sitting alone, under the glowing neon sign which reads, "Complete and Total Loser, Not Quite Sane. Stay Away. Do Not Feed.

I knew how much it hurt to be the daughter of people who can't see you, not even if you are standing in front of them stomping your feet.

Bologna girl, that's me.

Do I want to die from the inside out or the outside in?

Censorship is the child of fear and the father of ignorance.