At Least The Girls In Stories Were

Nothing Happened. And Everything Did. Your Whole Life You Can Be Told Something Is Wrong And So You Believe It. Why Should You Question It? But Then Slowly Seeds Are Planted Inside Of You, One By One, By A Touch Or A Look Or A Day Skateboarding In A Park, And They Start To Burst Out Of Old Hulls Shells And They Start To Sprout. And Pretty Soon There Are So Many Of Them. They Are Named Love And Trust And Kindness And Joy And Desire And Wonder And Spirit And Soulmate. They Grow Into A Garden So Dense And Thick That It Starts To Invade Your Brain Where The Old Things You Were Once Told Are Dying.

You Are So Intense. Like A Storm. It's Shocking How Intense You Are.

That Was When I Cut My Arms With A Razor Blade As A Means Of Creative Expression. I Only Did It Lightly, Just Grazing The Skin, To See The Way The Blood Would Bleed Out, To Make Myself Look Tougher. Not Like Some Of Those Kids Who Keep Going Deeper And Deeper, Wondering What They Look Like Down To The Bone, Because It's A World That's So Close And Yet So Far And So Dangerous And So Much Their Own. The Only World That Is Their Own.

My Mother Says That Pain Is Hidden In Everyone You See. She Says Try To Imagine It Like Big Bunches Of Flowers That Everyone Is Carrying Around With Them. Think Of Your Pain Like A Big Bunch Of Red Roses, A Beautiful Thorn Necklace. Everyone Has One.

Wish On Everything. Pink Cars Are Good, Especially Old Ones. And Stars Of Course, First Stars And Shooting Stars. Planes Will Do If They Are The First Light In The Sky And Look Like Stars. Wish In Tunnels, Holding Your Breath And Lifting Your Feet Off The Ground. Birthday Candles. Baby Teeth.