It all began in the womb I was born, a womb that carried generational trauma and shame. You can call me a chosen one, but I had no choice over my fate. I searched for love in every face— that’s all I ever needed, I swear. But I grew up learning to go without, wishing my dad had been more present. They said puberty hit you like a truck, but no one warned me about the men who prey. I was drawn to all the broken men, maybe because I was just the same. Everything happens for a reason, I know— but it feels like I lost everyone in the end. Maybe that’s the price we pay to break the cycle of old mistakes. I could go on and on, but I can never fully express the depths of this pain.