Whoever you were
the one who decided
that love should come with
that affection must be earned
that tenderness should be withheld
like a privilege
I need you to hear me
Because I grew up inside the wreckage
of your idea
I learned early
that warmth was conditional
that safety could vanish
if I asked for too much
that needing comfort
was a kind of failure
I carried your doctrine
like a stone in my chest
I learned to brace instead of breathe
to apologize for existing
to shrink myself
so I wouldn’t be punished
for wanting softness
You never saw the aftermath
You never watched me flinch
when someone offered kindness
because it felt like a trap
You never saw me
mistake cruelty for strength
because that’s what I was taught
You never saw the nights
when I sat alone
wondering why love felt like
a battlefield
why my heart expected shrapnel
instead of shelter
You never saw how your philosophy
became my second spine
crooked, aching
holding up a life
built on fear of needing anything.
You never saw the way
your version of “love”
made me believe
I deserved the cold.
And maybe that’s what burns most
that you walked away untouched
while I spent years
trying to unlearn the damage
you called discipline.
But hear this:
I’m rewriting the script
you carved into me.
I’m choosing softness
as rebellion.
I’m choosing compassion
as resistance.
I’m choosing warmth
as the inheritance
I should have had all along.
Your philosophy shaped me,
but it does not own me.
Your coldness marked me,
but it does not define me.
I survived you.
And in surviving,
I became the proof
that your version of love
was never love at all.
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