You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl.
You’re not dead, but you’re not alive, either. You’re a wintergirl, Lia-Lia, caught in between the worlds. You’re a ghost with a beat- ing heart. Soon you’ll cross the border and be with me. I’m so stoked. I miss you wicked.
I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don’t want to die.
We held hands when we walked down the gingerbread path into the forest, blood dripping from our fingers. We danced with witches and kissed monsters. We turned us into wintergirls, when she tried to leave, I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone.
There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
Cutting pain was a different flavor of hurt. It made it easier not to think about having my body and my family and my life stolen, made it easier not to care... -Wintergirls
We turned us into wintergirls, and when she tried to leave, I pulled her back into the snow because I was afraid to be alone.
I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
They yell at me because I can't see what they see. Nobody can explain to me why my eyes work different than theirs.
Why? You want to know why? Step into a tanning booth and fry yourself for two or three days. After your skin bubbles and peels off, roll in coarse salt, then pull on long underwear woven from spun glass and razor wire. Over that goes your regular clothes, as long as they are tight.
So, she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.
In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.
Dead girl walking” the boys say in the halls. “Tell us your secrets” the girls whisper, one toilet to another. "I am that girl. I am the spaces between my thighs, daylight shinning through. I am the bones they want, wired on a porcelain frame.
I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life. And that's the problem. When you're alive, people can hurt you. It's easier to crawl into a bone cage or a snowdrift of confusion. It's easier to lock everybody out. But it's a lie.
Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
Who wants to recover? It took me years to get that tiny. I wasn't sick; I was strong.
I believe that you've created a metaphorical universe in which you can express your darkest fears. In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves, and sometimes we do such a good job, we lose track of reality.
I failed eating, failed drinking, failed not cutting myself into shreds. Failed friendship. Failed sisterhood and daughterhood. Failed mirrors and scales and phone calls. Good thing I'm stable.
For one moment we are not failed tests and broken condoms and cheating on essays; we are crayons and lunch boxes and swinging so high our sneakers punch holes in the clouds.
What do I want? The answer to that question does not exist.
I wish I had cancer. I will burn in hell for that, but it's true.
I inscribe three lines, hush hush hush, into my skin. Ghosts trickle out.
Here stands a girl clutching a knife. There is grease on the stove, blood in the air, and angry words piled in the corners. We are trained not to see it, not to see any of it. . . . Someone just ripped off my eyelids.
I won the wintergirl trip over the border into dangerland.
I am the space between my thighs, daylight shining through.
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