I didn't like kissing him, it felt like a chore.

We made out because we didn't have all that much to say to each other, he seemed to prefer it that way.

I wish I realised earlier, realised that I wasn't broken or not trying hard enough. I wish I stopped before I started losing little pieces of myself each time I found myself in his bedroom.

I loved the feeling of the red shag carpet under my feet, and the thought of sitting on it and watching a movie with the boy I wanted him to be, but I never got to entertain the thought for long before he guided us over to the bed. I wish I said something. I loved the feeling of being wanted, but I did not love him. I did not love the feeling of being with him. I wish I realised that was okay.

I wish I didn't still blame myself for how he treated me. For every time he pushed my boundaries until they crumbled.

'My neck hurts.'

'I need to be home soon.'

'I don't want to take that off.'

None of the excuses were good enough, and time after time I let him cross the boundaries I set. I never said no. But I shouldn't have had to.

He should have known after the third time I pulled away that I did not want to be kissed. He should have known by the fourth time he asked, that my underwear were staying on. He should have acknowledged my obvious discomfort. But I should have said no. I should have learned.

*

'I don't think I can do this with the others here, it doesn't feel right,' I said to the next guy as he feels around under my shirt while our friends are sleeping on the floor around us.

'That makes it more exciting,' he says. He doesn't stop, he kisses me.

'This feels weird.'

'It's fine. Don't worry.'

I should have told him to stop. But I already had, and he didn't. So I told myself that I was being uptight and ridiculous, that I SHOULD want this, that all our friends wanted it to be 'a thing', that I was just nervous, and I let another guy break another boundary.

I kissed him back.

I hate him for that. And for every time after when his hands would find me in the dark, falling confidently back onto my hips each time I moved them away. For the times my discomfort frustrated him but he wouldn't talk about it, going back to kissing and grabbing instead. For the way he compounded what I had already learned to feel – that I was the one to blame for being uncomfortable and that I had no grounds to say 'no'. That I needed a reason to say it at all.

It took two boys to break me. It took one more to show me the pieces of myself I had lost. It took two years to start putting them back together.

So this is for the first two boys.

I will not let you keep me broken. I will not let you make me feel like my words are nothing. I will not believe that my feelings are second to your desires. I will not break again because I filled my cracks with iron and I will crush you if you try.