Memory Cuts Both Ways; It Can Either

I Nod Like I’m Listening,like We’re Communicating, And She Never Knows The Difference.

When People Don't Express Themselves, They Die One Piece At A Time. You'd Be Shocked At How Many Adults Are Really Dead Inside—walking Through Their Days With No Idea Who They Are, Just Waiting For A Heart Attack Or Cancer Or A Mack Truck To Come Along And Finish The Job. It's The Saddest Thing I Know.

My Face Becomes A Picasso Sketch, My Body Slicing Into Pieces.

I Am Angry That I Starved My Brain And That I Sat Shivering In My Bed At Night Instead Of Dancing Or Reading Poetry Or Eating Ice Cream Or Kissing A Boy.

I Want To Tell Him That It's Just A Stupid Car, But Bits Of Me Are Scattered All Over Town; The Graveyard, School, Cassie's Room, The Motel, And Standing In From Of The Sink In My Mother's Kitchen. It Takes Too Much Energy To Gather All The Bits Together, So I Just Sit There And Watch Him Implode.