There’s a vehement untold story within my heart that prevents me from looking in the mirror and seeing the reflection of the innocent young girl that danced in the field of daffodils at the tender age of 4. You see, the image that I behold is as cold and dark as the room that I was often led into because in actuality I was afraid of the night; Times that I laid in the soft and inviting arms of the one I knew would protect me from harm. Who knew those would be the arms that caused the most harm. Snatching my innocence from me forcing me into accepting the choice of being girl or boy. Wait, top or bottom? Of course I will take top to stop from suffocating under the weight of the enormous body that somehow takes my breath away from me, AWAY FROM ME with the heavy panting frightening me with the gripping thought of the monster coming up behind me and stabbing me in my back, when right before the attack, I get tossed on my back and the tender arm gently cross my little body and holds me tight until the dawn of morning light.