The stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking/stuffing/puking didn't make her skinny, it made her cry.

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

They're on their way to the foreign-language wing. That's no surprise. The foreign kids are always here, like they need to breathe air scented with their native language a couple times a day or they'll choke to death on too much American.

It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.

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

Oppressive bastards, think they own the place. I told them that karma's going to kick their asses.

No, I am never setting foot in this house again it scares me and makes me sad and I wish you could be a mom whose eyes worked but I don't think you can.