I still remember when I was seven,
holding my dad’s hand for the last time.
It didn’t feel like home anymore—
his hand was rough,
heavy with words he never said,
cold with the kind of silence
that makes your heart ache.
Tears slipped down my face
as I tried to hold on to something already gone.

I still remember being eleven,
touching the slide one last time.
The metal felt different—
not smooth and warm like it used to be,
but rough, almost tired.
The air buzzed with the sound of laughter,
kids shouting about middle school and new beginnings,
while I stood still,
feeling the ending of something small and safe.

I was twelve
when I first held a blade.
It was cold,
too real in my shaking hand.
I didn’t feel pain—
only the sting,
the sharp smell of blood,
and a quiet emptiness
that I couldn’t explain.

I was still twelve
when I felt a hand I never wanted to feel.
His touch burned my skin,
and the air turned thick,
like the room itself wanted to disappear.
I learned how fear feels—
not loud,
but trapped beneath your breath.

I was fifteen
when I tried on my first quince dress.
It felt soft,
like clouds brushing against my skin.
Light and free—
a moment I had dreamed of for years.
When I looked in the mirror,
I saw her again—
the little girl I used to be,
eyes shining with hope,
finally remembering what it felt like to smile.