As a little girl, I fell down on the gravel driveway of our old farm house – a lot. Afterwards I would sit on the ground and squeeze my small, busted knee cap with both hands until the jagged flap of skin hanging over the wound pooled with blood like a dirty ruby, before breaking into a large droplet that would streak its way down my leg.

Something in the need to see the definitive proof that I had been hurt, inside a world where it was never otherwise believed.

Luciana, 38