He Doesn't See My Breasts Or My

I Doubt Trees Are Ever Told To 'be The Screwed-up Ninth-grader.'

I Need To Finish This Scarf/shawl/blanket Thing So I Can Start Something For Emma- A Hat, Maybe, Or A Sweater For Her Stuffed Elephant.

She Offered Herself To The Big, Bad Wolf And Didn't Scream When He Took The First Bite.

I Am A Gluttonous, Gorging Failure. A Waste. My Body Isn’t Used To High-sugar Carbs Laced With Witchcraft. It Can Barely Cope With Soup And Crackers.

I Have Entered High School With The Wrong Hair, The Wrong Clothes, The Wrong Attitude. And I Don't Have Anyone To Sit With.