"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

We haven’t spoken in weeks, and we never will again. The days spent with you are dead, dead to me, at least. Enough happened in the span of your wings that I should hate you. I can’t hate you. I’m trying hard to hate you, so hard that my eyes can hardly see straight, but I can’t hate you. I wish you never did what you did to me. You led to my demise, and honestly I felt like Kurt Cobain spiraling down a path of drug dependency and dirty apartments and unwashed hair. Sophomore year, you were a dark tunnel and I was on my hands and knees, desperate to get to the other side but thinking if I just coped various ways it would be like I had made it. Your dishonesty and trickery has left me a fragile shell of a person and I’m slowly trying to rebuild what you destroyed. But you were good, so good, in a sweet way that stings because it’s not actually sweet. You opened up doors to me. Sylvia Plath. My own dependency upon others. I hope you know that I hate you when the sky is overcast, but I love you when the sun shines and the tulips bloom. Sophomore year, I pray you will be dead forever, but I fear you are simply in hibernation, anticipating your awakening when spring ends.