I need a new friend. I need a friend, period. Not a true friend, nothing close or share clothes or sleepover giggle giggle yak yak. Just a pseudo-friend, disposable friend. Friend as accessory. Just so I don't feel or look so stupid.

A breath of steam trickles out, filled with the sobs of a grown woman breaking into girl-sized pieces.

I wish adults would spend less energy freaking out about the cutting itself and work harder to understand what drives kids to self-harm.

I don’t know what I’m doing in the next five minutes and she has the next ten years figured out. I’ll worry about making it out of ninth grade alive. Then I’ll think about a career path.

I inscribe three lines, hush hush hush, into my skin. Ghosts trickle out.

You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl.

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