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your butterfly dies.
    Those are the rules.
    Sick, huh?
    But Skylar’s so sure it’ll work,
    she floats away from the table
    like she’s a butterfly herself.
    I don’t know if I should feel
    sorry for her
    for putting so much faith
    in permanent marker
    or if I should feel
    just a teeny bit good inside
    because Skylar named her butterfly
    for me.

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Skylar’s Nervous Breakdown
    It’s all Bullhorn’s fault.
    She never should’ve said that
    Skylar’s gonna become another
    Teenage Statistic if she doesn’t
    start seeing herself for
    the Beautiful Person that she is.
    Then Donya wouldn’t have said,
    “Oh yeah, twigs are soooo hot.”
    And Jag wouldn’t have laughed
    until chocolate milk spurted out his nose.
    And Skylar wouldn’t have bolted
    down the hallway screaming,
    “Lemmeout! Lemmeout!”
    And I wouldn’t have sat there
    with my mouth open
    wishing I’d said thank you
    for the butterfly.

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There’s So Much Drama
    My mother thinks it’s all because
    of the hormones in cow’s milk
    making girls hit puberty way too soon.
    And not just the early bloomers.
    A whole generation of twelve-year-olds
    budding in their teeny-weeny bikinis
    and sprouting armpit hair
    before their frontal lobes
    have a chance to catch up.
    But what does she know?
    My mother also thinks that margarine
    is one molecule away from plastic
    and that fried food will make
    her hair turn gray.
    That’s whacked.
    But sometimes I wish she was right,
    because to tell you the truth,
    I’d give up dairy products all together
    if it would make all the drama go away.
    And Skylar come back.

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Before Group Therapy
    I’m staring at Jag’s
    perfect pecs,
    his awesome abs,
    his flawless face
    when Roger points
    at sneakers propped
    on Skylar’s empty seat
    and says,
    “Take them off.”
    And then . . .
    Plop.
                Plop .
    I’m staring at Jag’s
    pissed and perfect feet.

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The Three C’s of Addiction
    Why does Roger look at me like that?
    I’ve never soaked gummy bears in vodka
    or snuck off campus to get high at lunch,
    and just because I smoked pot
    one time with Rennie,
    that doesn’t mean
    I’m addicted.
    But Roger says
    if you crave something
    and lose control
    and keep doing it
    over and over
    despite the consequences ,
    then you’re addicted.
    Yeah?
    So what?
    Why does he keep looking at me like that?

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What I Find in Skylar’s Empty Room
    Five carrot sticks she pretended to eat at lunch.
    Four clumps of hair that brushed right off her head.
    Three unopened letters.
    Two bloody tissues.
    And a poem she wrote today—
    What the Blade Says
    I am the shadow
    that waits in dark places,
    silent and patient,
    to follow you home.
    I am the tiger
    that eagerly chases,
    racing and running,
    wherever you roam.
    I am the hunger
    that feeds on your madness,
    biting and clawing,
    to swallow you whole.
    I am the silver
    that soaks up your sadness,
    body and spirit
    and all of your soul.

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The Rubber Room
    Donya finds me in Skylar’s room
    and sees the bloody tissues in the trash.
    She says she knows exactly what that
    means and she pulls me out of the room.
    She points down this long narrow hall,
    past the rec room and the emergency exit,
    to a thick black door with a tiny