There is a shimmering in my chest that at once hurts and exhilarates me

If I were a millionaire I’d wear fake jewels to every gala

A Sylvia Plath poem

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The song "Kids" sounds like Boo Radley's lawn at midnight, like going on a hike in a county park somewhere you've never been before.

Girl in a Museum. Girl in a hall of mirrors. Girl who sees herself in every painting, brushstroke Impressionist Untrained to the novice eye but accomplished by the experts’ Worth whatever someone will pay for it Work of art

Depression sneaks in quickly, it doesn’t ask permission. It’s your nosy neighbor who, seeing the door cracked open, plows in with beady eyes and sits down at your humble dining room table.

This week in America feels like thick globular black paint stroked onto all my walls. Over my prints and across our wedding photos, I stare at the monochrome without blinking until the even the texture becomes fuzzy.

My biggest fear in wearing make up is that I’ll lose the ability to see myself as beautiful without it. When I was out of college I decided that I would go without. Not because I’m a “pick me” girl or because I’m pretty enough that most of society woul...

It’s funny how a couple months ago my hollowed out chest felt like a gaping wound that would never heal, or if it did, would become a rough textured canvas of scars.