We always say we want to be loved over lusted. We want to be cherished, cared for, wanted—not just touched for a moment and forgotten. But what about when the people we thought would love us, the ones we thought would hold us carefully, still end up breaking us in their possession?
It’s not that they don’t love us. It’s that their version of love is warped. Twisted. A little fucked up, if I’m being honest. And mine is different. There’s nothing wrong with that—but it means they can take their love elsewhere. Because it’s not for me.
Breakups come, and what do we all do? We cry. We spiral. Especially if we grew up unseen, especially if we’ve gone too long without being touched, especially if we’re already carrying our own holes inside. We cling.
That’s what happens sometimes—we’re raw, lonely, craving connection… and then right on cue, the familiar people appear. The ones who once broke us, suddenly circling back like they never left. And because we’re vulnerable, we almost say yes. Almost let them back in. But then—something reminds us. A word, a tone, a habit. And it hits us: they haven’t changed. And we don’t want to go back there.
And when that longing makes us reach back for the people who hurt us, just because the memory of connection feels better than the ache of loneliness. Remind yourself of this truth: a love that asks you to abandon yourself was never love to begin with.
I thought about the men that have been around. The ones who just want to hold me, touch me, fuck me. And honestly? I’d rather deal with that. And by deal with that, hear me loud and clear: I do not mean sleep with them. I’d rather deal with their shit. At least they’re honest. At least they know what they want. At least they admire something about me without trying to swallow me whole—besides in the fun ways. Haha. Sorry, inappropriate.
I’d rather be lusted after by men who still listen to me, who still talk with me, who still hold space for me in some small way… than be “loved” by someone who doesn’t even see me. And that’s the sad part. Because I know these people truly believe they love us. But their love can drag us into dark places. Their love can creep into the best parts of us and try to reshape who we are into something we’re not. That love ignores my needs, my wants, my soul.
That kind of love is beneath me. You. Everyone.
Sometimes we realize that love hasn’t changed—but we have. We grow, we shift, we face ourselves, while others stay the same. And the kind of love that once felt right suddenly feels suffocating. It drags us under, claws at the best parts of us, and tries to twist them into something smaller, something unrecognizable.
Real love doesn’t ask us to shrink. Real love doesn’t demand we fold ourselves up just to fit inside someone else’s vision. And when we finally see that, the choice becomes clear: to release what isn’t love at all.
Not out of hate. But out of recognition. Out of a knowing that we deserve something real, something whole, something free.
And until that arrives, I’ll stand in my truth. I’d rather be lusted than lost in love.
