As a toddler, my pudgy fingertips trace the broken lines from my Alphabet Book. Pride fills me as three red stars are marked on my hands.

As a child, my bruised fingertips trace the broken vase from my stepmom's room. Fear fills me as she marks three red slaps on my arms.

As a teen, my bony fingertips trace the broken body I have from my mirror. Satisfaction fills me as three red slits mark my wrists.