I was at one point.
But this is not a sob story. This is not a tale of how I was wounded and rose from my ashes like an undying phoenix, NO. I will not be pitied, I will not be taken into the hands of the very same who once overlooked my yellowing flesh as if I were an apple with dying skin capable of being peeled off, NO.
In fact, I would prefer no more hands.
No more hands to have and to hold, because all they seem to do is hold my heart and then break it like the littering of bones inside of my face.
When I was a little girl I was constantly reminded of just how beautiful my cheekbones were, but now they're just a reminder of how fragile I am.
I am NOT fragile.
I am a warrior.