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.— Laurie Halse Anderson
The most unconventional Laurie Halse Anderson quotes to discover and learn by heart
I want to go to sleep and not wake up, but I don’t want to die.
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.
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.
I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.
So, she tells me, the words dribbling out with the cranberry muffin crumbs, commas dunked in her coffee.
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.
Write about the emotions you fear the most.
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.
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 wish I had cancer. I will burn in hell for that, but it's true.
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.
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 am the space between my thighs, daylight shining through.
You have to know what you stand for, not just what you stand against.
When people don't express themselves, they die one piece at a time.
Why not spend that time on art: painting, sculpting, charcoal, pastel, oils? Are words or numbers more important than images? Who decides this? Does algebra move you to tears? Can plural possessives express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!
I just want to sleep. A coma would be nice. Or amnesia. Anything, just to get rid of this, these thoughts, whispers in my mind. Did he rape my head, too?
A scar is a sign of strength. . .the sign of a survivor.
I don't just use yarn from a store. I buy old sweaters from consignment shops. The older the better, and unravel them. There are countries of women in this scarf/shawl/blanket. Soon it will be big enough to keep me warm.
Because I am still a little girl who believes in Santa and the tooth fairy and you.
I stand in the center aisle of the auditorium, a wounded zebra in a National Geographic special, looking for someone, anyone to sit next to. A predator approaches: gray jock buzz cut, whistle around a neck thicker than his head. Probably a social studies teacher, hired to coach a blood sport.
The stars whirled above us and the firecrackers blazed.
The moon stood watch as drops of blood fell, careless seeds that sizzled in the snow.
Do they choose to be so dense? Were they born that way? I have no friends.
I have nothing. I say nothing. I am nothing.
Can the plural possessive express the feelings in your heart? If you don't learn art now, you will never learn to breathe!
I am almost a real girl the entire drive home.
I went to a diner. I drank hot chocolate and ate french fries. Talked to a guy for a while. Laughed a couple of times. A little like ice-skating for the first time, wobbly, but I did it.
The only number that would ever be enough is 0.
Zero pounds, zero life, size zero, double-zero, zero point. Zero in tennis is love. I finally get it.
Art without emotion its like chocolate cake without sugar. It makes you gag.
Sometimes being an adult means doing the right thing, even if it's not what you want.
Censorship is the child of fear and the father of ignorance.
Nicole can do anything that involves a ball and whistle.
I shake my head. I pick up the rake and start making the dead-leaf pile neater. A blister pops and stains the rake handle like a tear. Dad nods and walks to the Jeep, keys jangling in his fingers. A mockingbird lands on a low oak branch and scolds me. I rake the leaves out of my throat. Me: "Can you buy some seeds? Flower seeds?
School libraries are the foundations of our culture – not luxuries.
Used to be that my whole body was my canvas-hot cuts licking my ribs, ladder rungs climbing my arms, thick milkweed stalks shooting up my thighs.
A little kid asks my dad why that man is chopping down the tree.
Dad: He's not chopping it down. He's saving it. Those branches were long dead from disease. All plants are like that. By cutting off the damage you make it possible for the tree to grow again. You watch - by the end of summer, this tree will be the strongest on the block.
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 decapitated dandelions all morning, leaving carnage and death strewn into my path.
It's easier to floss with barbed wire than admit you like someone in middle school.
Gym should be illegal. It's humiliating.
Melancholy held me hostage, and the bees built a hive of sadness in my soul.
The bathroom door swings open. Emma sees the blood painting my skin and the red rivers carved on my body. Emma sees the wet knife, silver and bone. The screams of my little sister shatter mirrors.
Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.
It is my first morning of high school.
I have seven new notebooks, a skirt I hate, and a stomachache.
I wish adults would spend less energy freaking out about the cutting itself and work harder to understand what drives kids to self-harm.
Mr. Freeman: You are getting better at this, but it's not good enough. This looks like a tree,but it is an average, ordinary, everyday, boring tree. Breathe life into it. Make it bend - trees are flexible, so they don't snap. Scar it, give it a twisted branch - perfect trees don't exist. Nothing is perfect. Flaws are interesting. Be the tree.