Katherine Brooke Writes

ShardOfGlassNose met me when I was sixteen, when I had my last laser treatment for my MountainRidgeLegs (even though I needed five more treatments), when I wore so much makeup that you couldn’t see the texture of my skin, when I still didn’t have my driver’s license, and he was eighteen, graduating from high school with no passion for anything except video games and jacking off, and we were in his blood red Chevy Cruze when I leaned my cheek on his white shirt and streaked orange down the middle, so I stopped painting my skin to save his laundry bill, and he documented the strawberry pores and cranberry polka dots littering my face, and even the orange paint wouldn’t stop him from reminding me, but he assured me I was beautiful but later he said that I was ugly over and over and over and over and I was sixteen when I met ShardOfGlassNose, when he failed a class senior year and had to do summer school, when he would take his pants off and force me to , when he received so many tickets that his license was suspended, and I was lying naked next to him with the two tangelos (TangerinexOrange) on my chest when he said they were gross, and I crossed my arms, and later that night I looked at them in the mirror, and they seemed rotten now, brown and reeking, so I understood, and I hated them and I hated them and I hated them and I hated them and I was sixteen when I met ShardOfGlassNose, when I only wore the push-up bra and low-cut top combination, when I didn’t know about Plan B, when I was first genuinely called a whore, and I was dancing in my living room, silly and carefree, swinging my hips to the sound of the wind knocking on the windows, and his words were like the wind, quick and breathy: YouHaveNothingToShakeSoStop, so I stopped, and I stared at myself in the mirror that night with my peach exposed, and again it seemed rotten and mushy, caving in on itself, and I touched it and grimaced and grimaced and grimaced and grimaced and I was sixteen when I met ShardOfGlassNose, when he told me that he was adopted, when he broke up with me (a lot), when he said that I was the first girl he ever loved, and I began to notice an influx of messages from girls consistently, and he accused me of being insecure (which I was), but he changed his phone password, and I trusted him (lie), but the messages kept coming, and he said that they just worked together, work friends, but one day he left his phone open, and I checked, and I immediately saw his dick in at least six different conversations, and he had said: HeyCanIGetYourOpinionOnSomething, and some girls sent pictures back: a new mother with big sagging grapefruits, a random shirtless girl showing off her new piercings, a coworker bent over in front of a mirror, a chronically ill teenager who promised to suck if he went on a date with her (she said that she would need help getting out of the car), a tattooed girl with her legs spread open, and more and more and more and more and I stopped looking because I felt like vomiting and I cried and cried and cried and cried because all he said to them was: WowYou’reSoBeautiful and he kept saying that: beautifulbeautifulbeautifulbeautiful to all the parts he said were disgusting on me, and I looked in the mirror and cried because he found my body too disgusting to even touch sometimes, and I didn’t hate him because I agreed with him, and all he kept saying was: WowYou’reSoDisgusting and he kept saying that: disgustingdisgustingdisgustingdisgusting, and I was eighteen when I finally broke up with ShardOfGlassNose, when I realized getting hit across the face is not something to forgive (it was open fist), when I realized his threats of sexual violence were not okay, when I realized I actually did not deserve what he was doing to me (even though he said that I did), but I was sixteen when I met ShardOfGlassNose, when I had my last laser treatment for my MountainRidgeLegs (even though I needed five more treatments), and my legs were still MountainRidgeLegs, and I still found them disgusting, and I had been clean for four years, but that didn’t matter because my legs were still MountainRidgeLegs, and I was sixteen when I relapsed because ShardOfGlassNoses cut deeper and leave uglier scars than razor blades.