I hate my body Hate what it remembers. Hate what it let him do.

I should know better than anyone–you can’t tell who a person is just from his looks.

You don’t deserve the anger you’re turning on yourself. Your abuser’s the one who does.

Other times, I look at my scars and see something else: a girl who was trying to cope with something horrible that she should never have had to live through at all. My scars show...

You can see when someone’s been hurt the way I was. It’s obvious. Something changes in their eyes; pain becomes their center, even when they try to hide it.

I think you’ve got to get out whatever’s hurting you through your art, so it doesn’t twist you up inside.

I know you’re upset, I know you’re scared, but don’t walk away.

I know I’m not to blame for what he did. And I know, too, that I am strong inside–stronger than I ever realized.

If I want to get out of here, I have to be the one to save myself.