Love Bombs 🥣
💔 When Love Was Performance: Why Love Does NOT Have Languages 🥣
Querida inner niña,
I didn’t learn love—I learned survival with a smile on. I learned how to hug before I learned how to say no. I learned how to give before I was ever taught to receive. And let’s be real: I learned how to perform love long before I ever felt safe enough to feel it.
They said love had "types." They gave us categories and colors and quizzes. But baby... that was just another test I was afraid to fail.
Before I could even spell "affirmation," I was wearing it like a costume—on live TV. 👗 Not for joy. Not for art. For money. For clothes. For approval. For them. 🩸 And behind those sparkly lights? I saw things no niña should ever see. My brother’s face hit with a bat at a piñata party. Girls being groomed, sold, and smiled at. And me? Just trying to be wanted… but not touched. To be seen… but not too loudly. To be useful, pero invisible.
💬 “Words” Were Cheap
They loved to say sweet things—but only when I was sweet. Praise became performance. If I spoke up, silence followed. So I learned to rehearse my worth instead of resting in it. Compliments still make me suspicious. Like, what do you want?
🎁 The “Gifts” That Cost Me
I learned early: gifts came with strings. The fancy dress meant I had to smile. The trip meant I had to be good. Now, even surprises feel like traps. If it’s not given freely, mi amor, it's not a gift—it's currency. And I don’t do emotional currency anymore. 💳❌
🧹“Acts” of Service or Acts of Survival?
I cooked. I cleaned. I over-functioned like a damn hotel concierge. 🛎️ Not because I loved you—because I was scared you’d leave. I served because I was never allowed to rest. And guess what? I’m tired, not difficult. Tired of being needed but never held. 🥣
🫂 Touch? Let’s Talk About It.
Some of us never learned what safe touch feels like. We learned tolerance. We learned to freeze. 🧊 If my inner niña flinches, I listen. So don’t rush me. I don’t owe you closeness just because you crave connection.
⏳“Time” Isn’t the Same as Presence
Being around me isn’t the same as being with me. I’ve spent entire relationships feeling lonelier in company than I ever did alone. Quality time means presence, not just proximity. If we’re both scrolling, that's not love—that's parallel play. 📱📱😩
🥣 I’m Not Performing for Love Anymore
Now? I check in with her—my inner niña. If she cries, I cradle her. If she says, “this doesn’t feel safe,” I believe her. Even if it looks like love on paper. Even if it’s gift-wrapped in “spiritual” language. Even if it’s trending.
No más checklists. (Well… unless we’re packing for a trip, then yes please 🧳✈️) I’m done being fluent in someone else’s fantasy while my truth stays untranslated. This heart? No longer for sale. 💔
Boundaries are my new love letter. ❤️🩹
Con cariño,
🥣 Me (the unlearning, unsilenced version)
🔈 Real Talk, Real Healing 🔈
“Are we really talking about this heart again?” Sí. Because it’s time.
This heart—yeah, not for sale anymore. 👗
As for my corazón? You can’t buy it. Not now, not ever. 💖
I took the price tag off my spirit a long time ago.
Me? Go back there? Not a chance. 🚫
If you’re done trading your softness for survival—
If you’re ready to stop performing and start healing—
Come sit with me. Let’s re-learn love. En serio. 🇵🇷
Comments
Post a Comment