Her heart was broken. Once upon a time her considerations of romance and passion as A Generally Nice Thing were broken, torn down. There was now danger in each moment, in each whispered word of sweet nothingness. She was no longer whole and never would be again.

She sighed, looked at the floor, still slimy and shining, watching her ideas of life shatter. Stepping gingerly, as though over broken glass, her thoughts race. Defiled – a punishment? A temple ruined and now only to be mourned. Pulling her skirt down, looking at the door that had been hastily closed behind him, she wept internally, screaming into the hollow room of her thoughts.

For fucks sake. Back here again. She puts the romantically engraved pen down. His name, and hers. But not hers. A reminder of a love prior to her own, a reminder that there can be no return to the way things were, for any of them. She mourns, and yet in the dead of night she rejoices, wanting for there to be no return, no escape from the life she leads now. and yet, the night whispers back… and yet.

Yet think of the men that have hurt you, who told you you would never be good enough to be anything more than an object for their affections – for their pleasure. Surely they must have a point, mustn’t they?

The night brings with it the feeling of panic, the image of shelves stacked high with flour and boxes. The hurried whispers of don’t get caught. I need this. I need you. You can’t – you know I’m not on anything. You know this.

And yet that feeling – one that would become so familiar, smooth and dry, sliding, pressure and then the pain. She won’t get pregnant from this. But losing her virginity like this will stay with her. For years she forgave him, but with age comes wisdom. His actions would bring him no remorse. It was the only choice after all. He needed it. She needed to not get pregnant. No matter the panic, the way in which it emblazoned onto her mind. No matter the fact that even those with far more experience than herself would often refuse this same experience.

But her experience is not unique, and she can feel him laughing, telling future girlfriends (or are they past?) that she, the wayward, vibrant woman had ruined him.

She had set him on the path to want only those who were broken. She believed it was her fault, but now, she thinks. She thinks of the glee, the programming from porn, the fetish of breaking and she questions. She knows now. She knows it hurt, that that added to his pleasure. That this was never and should never have been ok.

She’s back there. Close to tears, pulling her underwear back up. It wasn’t pleasurable, and she can feel it leaking out of her. It’s then her dreams are broken, between a sore ass and a pat on the bum. He doesn’t even thank her. But she won’t realise until much later, as she treads across the shards left lying on the floor after he leaves. They embed themselves in her feet, creating sharp pangs as she realises that she hasn’t pulled the splinters out.

She pauses. Picks up the pen. Looks at it and puts it down. One more splinter gone. It was never ok. It should never have happened. And she is not to blame. Her life sparkles in front of her, beckoning her back to the present. Back to reality. He loves her, sitting with her to pick out each splinter with care and compassion. And finally, she cries. The tears from decades of echoes and memories past fall, taking the hurt with them. It is over.