I open a paperclip and scratch it across the inside of my left wrist. Pitiful. If a suicide attempt is a cry for help, then what is this. A whimper, a peep? I draw little window cracks of blood, etching line after line until it stops hurting.

What do I want? The answer to that question does not exist.

Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.

Gym should be illegal. It's humiliating.

It is easier not to say anything. Shut your trap, button your lip, can it. All that crap you hear on TV about communication and expressing feelings is a lie. Nobody really wants to hear what you have to say.

You have to know what you stand for, not just what you stand against.

Having a friend made everything else suck less.