Its not that I'm afraid. Its knowing that my mother held me in her arms less than 10 times before she gave me up. Its knowing that she came to visit me one day at the agency and walked out knowing she wasn't coming back- but I didn't know. Its knowing her heart had been broken so many times she started a relationship with drugs and renewed her vows every night. Its the experience of being given to a new family and not knowing anything about where you came from. Its the constant fights between mother and daughter, ending in breathless gasps of hurtful words and frustration. Its the memories of the tear-stained cheeks and muffled screams into my pillow so no one can hear me letting out the recollection of being unwanted. Its the tentative strokes of the razor on my hot skin after I take a shower, because why not hurt myself physically as bad as I was hurt mentally? Its watching every single one of my close friends slowly fade into just another person in the crowd. Its remembering the names of all the boys I have loved, and then remembering all the ways they told me I wasn't good enough. Its the way I look into a mirror and I see nothing. Its realizing that its easier to block out the feelings instead of letting people in; because people only come into your life to mess it up, and then they leave. Its not that I'm afraid of love. It's that I no longer know how to.