My face becomes a Picasso sketch, my body slicing into pieces.

Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.

I want to tell him that it's just a stupid car, but bits of me are scattered all over town; the graveyard, school, Cassie's room, the motel, and standing in from of the sink in my mother's kitchen. It takes too much energy to gather all the bits together, so I just sit there and watch him implode.

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.

If I ever form a clan, we'll be the anti-cheerleaders and walk under the bleacher forming mild acts of mayhem.

Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.

I am locked into the mirror and there is no door out.