Sexualization is a ghost that haunts my every move. Every word I say, every movement I make could be taken by someone as a one-way invitation to my body. Society taught me this all too well.

Since I was six years old and my neighbor friend coerced me into pulling my pants down for an activity I didn't want to participate in, all through adolescence and up until today, it has followed me. Every story it infiltrates leaves behind an invisible scar on my skin.

Years ago, I met a boy at a friend's birthday party. His body was tangled with that of another girl, but a week later he found me on Facebook and messaged me asking, "Do you remember me?"

He wrote a lot of nice words and shared a sad story about how the girl from the party led him on, only to shut him down and shred his heart to bits. I swallowed his story whole, letting every word burn into my tongue and sink into my bones. What a horrible thing of that girl to do. I wrote a lot of comforting words back to him.

I felt terrified when he told me he wanted us to be as physically close as possible, kissing and cuddling together naked, and that I was his one chance at happiness. We had been messaging each other for only two days.

I choked on his words. I coughed them out of my mouth like vomit. He played me like a fool. I blocked him.

A boy I met in my college dorm my freshman year messaged me the summer after the school year ended. He sent me a picture of himself shirtless in an attempt to get me to do the same. Apparently, it was my turn now even though I never agreed to participate in something like this.

Sending nudes? That's not me. I'm not that kind of person. I stopped responding to him.

Half a year later, he messaged me again asking, "What's up?" I responded just to be nice. He waited a week to reply. I wondered if he would try to convince me to send him the pictures he never got. I ignored him.

I had found that making friends my freshman year of college turned out to be an uncomfortable struggle, so I tried using an app to meet other students around campus. The girls were nice, but there were too few of them, and the boys begged for things I would never give them.

One morning before class I woke up to a new message from a boy I hadn't talked to before that said, "Nudes?" My heart sank. No. Was this how people saw me?

He wasn't the only boy on there making requests I wouldn't answer to. It kept happening over and over again.

I never said I was fine with it. I never said I wanted hookups, friends with benefits, or nudes. I'm not comfortable with any of that. I have never engaged in activities like these with anyone, but some people assume I'll do them for everyone who asks. I began to wonder, "What makes people see me this way?" Is it something I do? Is it something I say?

One day, I broke down. I couldn't handle it anymore and I deleted my account.

I assumed I have an unfortunate predisposition to be naïve, that I have to handle the beautiful lies a person plasters on their face before I am able to see the grim truth that hides underneath.

The problem is that narratives like mine don't only happen to me. They could be part of anyone's story. Although they happen more often to women, they happen to men too. Never forget that.

Sexualization never stops. It is a constant, vicious cycle. The worst part is that there's nothing I can do about it except block, ignore, delete. There will always be someone new to begin the tragic cycle again. These people keep coming back. They always find me. There is no way to avoid them.

I'm tired of it all. I want it to stop. I'll be 21 soon, but people tell me I look 17. A pure, perfectly innocent picture ripe for the taking. I'll never be free of the hunting ground.

There's a kind boy working at the Jimmy John's I frequent. One day he gave me a soda cup for free because I was having issues with the card reader, and another day he came up to me as I was packing my sandwich into my backpack, handed me a stack full of napkins, smiled and said in a voice sweet as candy, "You always forget these." I laughed and told him, "Thanks."

I wonder if he imagines me lying naked in his bed, straddling his hips.