from the daughter’s point of view When pain gets loud, I go backwards. I hold my stuffed bunny like it’s a shield. Because little me is the only version of me who doesn’t want to die. Fifteen is too sharp. Fifteen has cuts on her arms, her thighs, her throat. Fifteen hides sharpeners in her pocket and walks past knives like they whisper her name. Fifteen still hears “You don’t listen.” But little me, just rocks herself to sleep. He doesn’t understand. He never did. he says I make excuses. He sees cuts and says I need to stop, but it's an addiction, just how he gambles. It’s release. It’s a scream my mouth couldn’t form. He shouts loud enough to make my skin feel unsafe inside itself. He says he loves me but love shouldn’t leave bruises on the inside. Now I cut, not because I want to disappear, but because part of me already has. Because it’s easier to bleed than to explain a wound no one believes is real. But little me she saves me. when the blades call too loud. She hugs herself so my arms don't reach for razors. Not because I’m strong, not because I’m healed, but because the three-year-old in me still believes in love and warm milk and someone tucking her in safe. Age regression isn’t weakness. It’s survival for me. And some nights, it's the only thing that keeps me alive.