This is what loving me really looks like.
God, I love you.
Desperately. Brutally. With every shattered piece of me.
I love you so much it hurts.
So much I ruin soft moments trying to protect myself from losing them.
So much I bite my tongue, swallow my fear, and smile—while I’m screaming inside.
I wish I could stop.
Stop spiralling.
Stop comparing myself to a ghost.
Stop flinching at old memories like they’re knives to the chest.
I wish I could stop looking for proof that I’m not enough.
But I don’t know how.
Because I’ve never been loved like this before.
Not out loud.
Not completely.
Not by someone who stays.
You tell me you’re here. That you chose me.
And I believe you.
But there’s a part of me that still wakes up in a war zone—
waiting for the love to vanish,
waiting for the silence to come.
Because I’ve known silence.
I’ve lived in it.
I mothered through it.
I held everything while no one held me.
And now I see her.
In your son’s face.
In old photos.
In the quiet things you don’t say.
And I wonder—Did she get more? Did she get the version of you I would have killed for?
And I hate myself for wondering.
Because you’re not hurting me.
You’re loving me.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
Because I’m still bleeding from being the woman no one showed up for.
The one who was invisible, even while giving everything she had.
I want to be better.
But I’m not fixed.
I am still crawling out of the wreckage of what came before.
Some days I look at your son and feel like I’m trespassing in a life I didn’t help build.
Some days I flinch at the sound of her name, even though you never say it.
Some days I push you away, just to see if you’ll really stay.
And still—you do.
You hold me when I fall apart.
You see me when I’m trying to disappear.
You love me like I’m not a ticking bomb wrapped in softness.
But let’s be real—
I am not easy to love.
I am chaos.
I am grief with a heartbeat.
I am stitched together from abandonment, silence, and fire.
But I am yours.
Fully. Madly. Honestly.
And I would burn through every ghost just to keep loving you the way I do.
So if I seem distant—
if I shut down—
if I cry over things you can’t see—
Know this:
It’s not that I don’t love you.
It’s that I love you so fucking much, I don’t know how to believe I deserve it.
But I want to.
I want to stop comparing.
I want to stop bleeding.
I want to stop flinching every time love knocks on the door.
I want to let you in—all the way.
And maybe I’m not there yet.
But I’m here.
Still showing up.
Still screaming inside.
Still choosing you.
Every. Damn. Day.