There are things I wish I could take back. Not just words, but moments — the times I shut down, lashed out, or disappeared when someone needed me to stay. I know what it’s like to be on the other side of that hurt, and somehow I still end up causing it.
That’s the part that eats at me the most.
I don’t hurt people because I want to. I hurt them because I don’t always know how to handle what’s happening inside me. Because I get scared. Because I pull away instead of reaching out. Because sometimes my pain spills over before I can stop it.
And I see it in their eyes — the confusion, the disappointment, the quiet question of why.
Why am I like this?
Why do I keep doing the same things when I swear I’m trying to be better?
I know I’m not easy to love. I come with baggage, with moods I don’t always understand, with walls I built a long time ago and still haven’t figured out how to tear down. I want to be someone safe, someone steady, but some days I feel like I’m fighting myself just to show up.
There’s a certain kind of guilt that comes from knowing you’re the reason someone else is hurting. Not because you meant to hurt them — but because you couldn’t get out of your own way. That kind of guilt stays with you. It follows you into quiet moments. It whispers reminders of every time you fell short.
Still, I try. I try to own my mistakes instead of running from them. I try to say I’m sorry and mean it. I try to learn from the damage instead of pretending it didn’t happen. Because even if I can’t undo the pain, I can choose not to ignore it.
Maybe that’s what growth looks like — not being perfect, but being honest about your flaws. Not pretending you’re harmless, but caring enough to want to be better. Not asking for forgiveness as an escape, but earning it through change.
I know I’m not easy to love.
But I’m trying to love better.
And for now, that has to count for something.
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