There's No Point In Asking Why, Even

This Camp Is A Forge For The Army; It's Testing Our Mettle. Instead Of Heat And Hammer, Our Trials Are Cold And Hunger. Question Is, What Are We Made Of?

Because I Am Still A Little Girl Who Believes In Santa And The Tooth Fairy And You.

In One Aspect, Yes, I Believe In Ghosts, But We Create Them. We Haunt Ourselves.

A Breath Of Steam Trickles Out, Filled With The Sobs Of A Grown Woman Breaking Into Girl-sized Pieces.

I Open A Paperclip And Scratch It Across The Inside Of My Left Wrist. Pitiful. If A Suicide Attempt Is A Cry For Help, Then What Is This. A Whimper, A Peep? I Draw Little Window Cracks Of Blood, Etching Line After Line Until It Stops Hurting.