You say you want connection.
You want someone real.
Someone who sees you.
Gets you.
Stays.
But you don’t let anyone close.
Not really.
You perform closeness.
You give just enough.
You say the right things, share the right wounds,
and keep your heart wrapped in razor wire.
Because deep down—
you don’t trust love.
You trust defense.
You trust survival.
You trust control.
You want to be held,
but you flinch every time someone reaches.
Because being touched means being felt.
And if they feel you,
they might find the part you hate.
The unworthy part.
The soft part.
The part you built a fortress around so long ago
you forgot what it’s protecting.
So you keep your armor on
and call it standards.
You ghost people who get too close
and call it intuition.
But really—
you’re terrified of being fully known.
Because fully known means fully seen.
And fully seen means no more hiding.
No more edits.
No more masks.
And if someone loves you there—
with all the rot,
the shame,
the chaos—
you’d have no excuse left.
You’d have to believe them.
And believing them
would mean breaking up with the story
you’ve clung to your whole life:
That you’re too much.
That you’re not enough.
That real love isn’t safe.
You say you want love.
But you keep slamming the door
right before it walks in.
