I cry as my nose bleeds from the picture frame falling off the wall hitting the bridge of my olfactory system. It hung on by a dirty nail that was found loose in the junk drawer, but lost the fight of resilience to the dry wall that had been painted pink. I’m seven. It was a picture of my family, it was a cruel joke that the frame and glass turned to sharp edges that clouded the photo in the frame that had broken my nose.

A longtime friend turned to a crush, I’m 15. I’m too scared to move. Numb and yet still aware of what’s happening. Slowly and on repeat, feeling of pins tip toeing on my body, creating goosebumps. I hate goosebumps. My body is broken, learning it was never good enough.

My family moves me in on the top floor of a college three hours away from home. I’m 18. The day was hot, not to mention the room being on the fourth floor. My family drops me off after crying and knowing I have grown up. My childhood is came to an end, and beginning of being an adult that has already be broken.

I’m surrounded by support, as I text the words to say to my high school boyfriend, that wasn’t even my boyfriend. I’m 19. A mistake that I let ruin me, pushed and buried me into a pit. I am suffocating, feeling nothing any longer. I’m rolling on the floor, knowing what I had endured wasn’t love, it was my soul being broken.

I’m sitting on his lap looking into deep green eyes trying to get the words out about how I feel. I’m 20. The words are there in my head but I can’t let them escape because what if he leaves? What is love when I have been broken so many times before?