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Big Dee
Writer | Speaker | Creative Voice. I tell stories, make calls & design confidence. @ Yabatech
Writer | Speaker | Creative Voice. I tell stories, make calls & design confidence. @ Yabatech
A Confession of Shackle-Skin
<p><span style="background-color: transparent;">I miss you.</span></p><p><br/></p><p>I do. Let us not start with lies, because I am quite tired of them. I miss knowing exactly where I stood—which was always on the edge, always waiting to fall. I miss how you made me feel anchored, even though an anchor just keeps a ship from moving.</p><p><br/></p><p>For the longest time, I walked around with a ledger in my head. I genuinely believed I was the debtor. I thought every bit of your attention was money I had to pay back with interest—paid in obedience, in silence, in pieces of my own sanity. You convinced me—without ever raising your voice—that I owed you my peace.</p><p><br/></p><p>You told me once, very softly, that I should never endure anything that hurt me. Do you remember? I laughed it off then, but the irony chokes me now. You taught me how to protect myself while you locked me in a burning room. I stayed because I believed the debt was real. I thought the pain was just the price of loving you.</p><p><br/></p><p>And God, I still miss how you cared. Or how you *looked* like you cared. I miss the shelter you built, even though you were the one keeping the light out.</p><p><br/></p><p>.....</p><p><br/></p><p>It took me too long to look down and see what I was wearing... Not golden chains. Not heavy iron. Hidden shackles, thin as silk, woven into my skin. I wore them like they were mine. I defended them. I thought they were just how I was made.</p><p><br/></p><p>I remember the exact tilt of your head when you said <span style="background-color: transparent;"><strong>I was too much</strong> —too loud, too needy, too much. And I thought: if I could just be less, this would work. So I was less. And less. And the shackles got tighter, and I called it love.</span></p><p><br/></p><p>My eyes are open now. I see the weight. I see what you broke.</p><p><br/></p><p>.....</p><p><br/></p><p>So why is my heart still reaching for you?</p><p><br/></p><p>The door is open. I can see daylight, but my chest still aches—ready to welcome you back, ready to bleed from the same wounds again.</p><p><br/></p><p>I don't want healing. I don't want to close this. I just want to stop <strong>wanting</strong> you to be the one who fixes it.</p><p><br/></p>
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