When I was three years old, I broke something very important to me. Everyday when I look at my arm, I see the scar. It happened so quick that I can barely recall the exact memory of how it happened. I remember twirling amongst the stars that day. I had the world dancing with me, and it was bright and colorful. There was nothing that could stop my happiness. Nothing except broken glass and seeing the droplets of blood that skimmed down my arm. I really couldn’t process what had just happened; all I knew was that I broke a glass window and my mother was bandanging my arm up. In reality, I didn’t just break a window, I broke myself. Pieces of me scattered on a white pavement floor; with the shattered glass mocking me. This scar unfolded itself to be bigger than I thought it would be. This scar on my arm. Did I do this? Did I break myself? Did I cause all my pain from the very beginning? I ponder at my actions as I see my shattered glass siblings reflecting different emotions. I glance over to the window frame that has nothing there; torturing me, telling me that I am nothing. This scar broke me into a dozen pieces, made me question if I really matter, and just gave me more questions than answers. This scar brings up that trauma; the scar on my arm is all that I can remember. Remembering the day I broke my reflection.