I make it through the first two weeks of school without a nuclear meltdown.

I doubt trees are ever told to 'be the screwed-up ninth-grader.'

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

It's easier to floss with barbed wire than admit you like someone in middle school.

I needed to hear the world but didn't want the world to know I was listening.

The stars whirled above us and the firecrackers blazed. The moon stood watch as drops of blood fell, careless seeds that sizzled in the snow.

Hannah was about to burst with excitement, which would have been disgusting because she would have sprayed blood, guts and glitter in every direction.