I watch the Eruptions. Mount Dad, long dormant, now considered armed and dangerous. Mount Saint Mom, oozing lava, spitting flame. Warn the villagers to run into the sea.

I don't just use yarn from a store. I buy old sweaters from consignment shops. The older the better, and unravel them. There are countries of women in this scarf/shawl/blanket. Soon it will be big enough to keep me warm.

It's a shame we can't just admit that we failed family living, sell the house, split up the money, and get on with our lives.

Gym should be illegal. It's humiliating.

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

I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life.

She cannot chain my soul. Yes, she could hurt me. She'd already done so...I would bleed, or not. Scar, or not. Live, or not. But she could not hurt my soul, not unless I gave it to her.