It’s been a year since I laid in my sun bed crying behind my sunglasses. I blamed the sunscreen for my bloodshot eyes. Blamed the sandy winds, the salt of the Mediterranean.

For days all I listened to was Melodrama. For 8+ hours on repeat for days upon days. I learned all the words and mouthed them. In my dreams I sang it all at the top of my lungs. It was the first time I ever heard anything that was written about me and for me, for all the girls with translucent skin, our pulses beating visibly under it, for the girls who carry our hearts in our hands, always at the ready to give it away. I was mending my broken one, cradling it in my arms, trying and failing to put it back in my chest. I kept bleeding out on a beach in Greece.

I wrote and wrote and wrote about my broken heart in the hopes of healing it. I wrote about the sun and the salt and the sand and zesty lemonade. I burnt and fried my skin to feel something else, and forced myself to believe that it’d all soon be over.