A little bit closer to the stars, anything seemed possible.
I’ve never been somewhere I belonged, but there are places where I think I could be happy. Like San Francisco. Well, do art museums count? Because I feel like I belong in them.
Sometimes it was hard to breathe, knowing how small my world could be. Maybe in San Francisco it wouldn’t feel like the universe was conspiring to keep me in a bubble.
I’m the girl who’s desperate to get out of her small town because if she doesn’t she knows she’ll die. She knows her soul will start to rot, like fruit gone bad.
My life was being planned in sentences that started with ‘We’ instead of ‘I’, yet it felt like the most natural transition in the world.
After a lifetime of wanting to be loved, she didn’t think she could bear it if it finally happened just before she was about to die.
Hate is a lot like love. It’s warm and fills you up until every part of you is tingling to release it.
You know those primitive tribal people who believed a camera could steal your soul? Turns out they were right.
This night felt like a last hurrah, like we could blaze our brightest, at the apex of our insane adolescence. This was our Mardi Gras before the dark days of Lent.
Somehow, the pain and rage and confusion of the past eighteen years dissolves until all that is left is this one perfect moment; unscripted, unedited, it’s ours and ours alone.
He looks like the kind of boy who would jump trains, strum guitars, and pass a joint.
You can’t screw up your own suicide and then expect the universe to give you presents wrapped in the skin of a wonderful boy. That’s just not the way it works.
If my sister were a character in a Victorian drama, she would be the snobbish rich girl with a penchant for talking shit about everyone behind their fan.
The past is past. You tried to kill yourself. So what? I humped a couch in season twelve. We all have our skeletons.
Even Mom doesn’t understand how being in front of a camera all the time twists and warps you. How one second it makes you feel unbelievably alive and the next publicly strips you down until all that’s left is one big question mark.
I’m not Bonnie™ or Chloe. I’m the essence of her, the nontrademarked person the camera can never capture and my parents have no right to sign over. There is a sovereign nation encased in this skin that MetaReel can never trademark.