i believe hurt people hurt people.
there was a season when i was one of them—
moving through love
with an unhealed heart,
hands unsure
of what they were reaching for.
i wanted closeness,
but something in me
tightened when it came—
like warmth i didn’t know how to hold.
i asked for connection
with a throat full of unsaid things,
carrying what i hadn’t healed
like it wouldn’t spill onto someone else.
i poured from a fractured cup,
watched it empty in my hands,
and still hoped
it might fill me back.
i reached for comfort
then flinched at its warmth,
stepping forward, then back—
leaving pieces of myself
at doors i never fully opened.
it was never intentional,
but intention doesn’t soften impact.
my wounds spoke in silence:
in pauses that lingered too long,
in distance where there should’ve been presence,
in a rhythm of pull and release
that wore tenderness thin.
i wanted the feeling of being chosen
without understanding
the weight of choosing back—
or staying
even when leaving felt easier.
what i called survival
was selfishness in softer clothing:
present in body,
but somewhere else in spirit.
now i understand
love asks for capacity—
for steadiness,
for words spoken before they harden,
for hands that don’t disappear
when things grow quiet.
and naming who i was
is not shame—
it is release,
the moment i stopped turning away
and finally listened
to where the hurt lived.