Childhood Trauma and how it shapes my romantic relationships

I have a lot of failed romantic relationships. Maybe 25 to be exact. I’m sensitive as fuck. Some have called it “too much” others know what happened to me and hold me a little tighter. I am not a victim. I am Joan of arc. St. Michael. I like to think at least. In this armor, that comes down very easily if you say goodmorning more than once. I am child like when I fall in love, because I never knew innocent love. So now I love balloons and Halloween parties and matching socks. I want what I didn’t have at 17. Identical necklaces and hoodies. The more innocent the better. I need A woman who loves me like a child like I need more zeros in my bank account. I’m quite immature even. I cling to you. Like leaves to a tree. Please don’t leave. Even if you aren’t good for me, please don’t leave. I’m a puppy. Love me. Love me. Why do you love me? Do you still love me? You are lying you can’t possibly love me. Go away before you hurt me. If you show me consistency I might trust you. If you don’t go away for more than 2 months I might believe you love me. But it’s highly unlikely. You’ll have to prove yourself. You’ll be constantly reassuring me that I’m safe. And when I’m safe, I’m scared you’ll leave so I’ll sabotage it before you do. Please don’t sexualize me. Please do. I must mean more to you than sex right? I’ll over perform. I’ll please you first. Don’t worry about me or this body. It’s been in a body bag, since wheeler ave.

I’m cute but I’m broken.

But some girls still think it looks cool

In the kaleidoscope of their mind.

All the colors. Buried in books to distract me from

Pain so this language is affluent. Could tell you stories and poems for days.

I dug into poetry to not

Dig into graves. It saved me.

They love my words, except when I got someone to say about how they really made me

Feel.

I’m

Cute but don’t get too close. Lovely at first, but do you have the patience to cope with my need to know everything. Everything. Please tell me

Everything that’s gonna happen. What are we. Where are we going?

Panic attacks that look and sound a lot like me asking you where you were last night. I need something reaL. Solid.

It feels like I’ve been floating past life in this ghost I call a body. In this temple I called a cage.

Disassociated since I was too young to get icecream.

Staring at the ceiling. Waiting til he finished. Big tits under Big Nike sweaters. I only exist to please you. You and you. Ignore me for a second and I think you’re cheating. I make up these scenarios in my head. Constantly. You must be cheating. You must be. Why would anyone stay with me? And all of this, shit. I’ll ask you to reassure me often. I’ll incessantly text you. Double text. Are you gonna leave? Are you still there?

One word and I can cry at the drop of a hat. Sorry love I’m not being possessive I’m just scared for you. Always. For the safety of your body. Can’t a girl be protective in the presence of a man that isn’t me. When you don’t text me as soon as you get home, my heart palpitates. It reminds me of the time my mother jumped out of a moving car. I love you too much, and do anything to make you happy. Codependency as an asset for narcissist lovers. Do whatever to me, don’t worry, I won’t leave. I will never leave. I’ll cry again At dinner. At the park. If you say you don’t know yet how you feel about me? watch Disney movies and cry. I found a way to try to live in this world as a man. To protect myself maybe. Cause being a woman hurts. I hide my skin behind big clothing. Like a modern day burka. Just so no one has any reason to say any word about what I look like. I want you to love me for me. Not my body. I want you to see my soul. I wonder sometimes if my body wants to get on the big stage of life and show up for a day. Or if she is still

Asleep on the bed he laid me in, and fucked me while I was in my 5th dream.

She says I act like a queen in Men’s jeans. Distortion there. Big distortion. I’ve got to pretend it doesn’t hurt me. That I don’t want to be taken care of or held, like a baby. But I’ve gotta become the man, it’s safer that way. But you can see it in my deep pools. And My girlfriends can’t stand when I make assumptions. Accusations. And I’m constantly apologizing. I’m 30 percent charming and 70 percent alarming. Quiet but observing every potential threat.

I sleep often, so I don’t think.

I sleep often so I don’t have to think about why you haven’t text me back.

Most of my relationships exist of me apologizing for my anxious nature to question everyone and everything around me. Everything is suspicious. Everything is potential harm. My PTSD wakes me up at 3am. Someone ghosted me again after I told them it’s the worse thing they could do. It seems the more I tell people about my wounds, the more they want to play with rifles, and then call me the trigger.

it’s obscene the way I dream and wake up and think it’s true. As a matter of fact, it is true until you prove me false.

I’m sorry again. Sorry for things I did. And sorry for things they did. And sorry for things I didn’t do.

I send 27 paragraphs telling you how much I love you even if you were the one to hurt me. Just don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

It goes like this. It feels like this. Constantly thinking someone is going to break my heart like he did when I was 7.

The safest place I thought I knew.

It goes like this. It feels like this.

and when you tell them what happened to you

They sort of look at you like a horror house. Excited to enter but also scared they won’t ever return. Cobwebs in my mind , some want to clean up. Others hang ornaments from

To remind me that they tried to love me. There was love here. They leave a lot and I don’t blame them.

Christmas trees make me

Cry. The gleam in

My eyes is water, not fluorescent beams. It’s the robbery of the century

The way my dreams were deferred.

Unfinished projects. Songs I won’t sing.

I miss my voice. Too many Ursula’s not enough Ariel’s near me.

This is what it feels like