My problem might be that even if I did go home, I wouldn’t belong there, among people who give without thinking and care without trying.

I point at a window to my left, and it explodes. Particles of glass rain over us. ‘You’ll have to do better than that,' I say.

My problem might be that even if I did go home, I wouldn’t belong there, among people who give without thinking and care without trying.

She can't possibly be me, though she moves when I move

By the time we leave, I have red lips and curled eyelashes, and I’m wearing a bright red dress. And there’s a knife strapped to the inside of my knee. This all makes perfect sense.

It happened. It was awful. You aren't perfect. That's all there is. Don't confuse your grief with guilt.

I used to go outside every day and invent these elaborate worlds and scenarios in my head, and when I grew too old for playing pretend, I started to write everything down instead.