I used to think love would save me.
That if someone saw me—
really saw me—
they’d hold me together when I couldn’t do it myself.
I believed in the kind of love that heals,
that wraps around your broken pieces and says,
“You’re safe now.”
But that’s not the love I got.
The love I got came with bruises.
With manipulation.
With promises that turned into weapons.
I let people in who said they cared,
and they hurt me in ways I still don’t know how to name.
Some of them used my vulnerability against me.
Some of them disappeared when I needed them most.
Some of them stayed just long enough to make me believe I was worth something—
and then left me questioning everything.
And the worst part?
I still wanted to be loved.
Even after all of it.
My parts don’t agree on how to handle this.
One is angry,
screaming that I should never trust again.
Another is desperate,
clinging to the hope that someone will love me right.
Another is numb,
refusing to feel anything at all.
And I’m stuck in the middle,
trying to make sense of how love became a battlefield.
I’ve been told I’m too much.
Too emotional.
Too broken.
Too complicated.
But the truth is,
I’ve just been hurt too deeply.
I’ve learned to protect myself in ways that look messy from the outside.
I’ve learned to expect pain where there should be tenderness.
I want to believe in love again.
I want to believe that someone could hold me without trying to fix me,
without using me,
without breaking me further.
But right now, love feels like a risk I can’t afford.
I’m still healing.
Still learning.
Still trying to forgive myself for the things I allowed,
the people I trusted,
the wounds I carry.
This is what love has looked like for me.
Not roses and poems—
but silence,
confusion,
and scars.
But I’m still here.
Still writing.
Still fighting.
And maybe one day, love won’t hurt.
Maybe one day, it will feel like safety
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