Disorganized Attachment
I learned you first in fragments—
not trust, not fear, but both at once,
a trembling compass spinning
toward the very hands
that taught you how to flinch.
Your heart kept two ledgers—
the one who comforts
and the one who harms—
yet both wore the same face,
spoke the same lullaby.
So love became a fire exit
sealed shut in every dream.
You ran toward safety,
but the path bent back
into the burning room.
I watch you now—
how you brace for impact
even in a gentle voice,
how you search my eyes
for storms I do not carry.
Child of scrambled signals,
you were not born in chaos—
it was given to you
like a map with no north.
But hear this softly:
your nervous system
is not your destiny.
There is a door
no one showed you.
Take my hand—
we will walk slowly.
The past can be rewired;
even shattered patterns
learn new rhythms.
And someday
when someone reaches for you
with honest, steady palms,
your body will not mistake
their warmth for danger.
You will not run.
You will not freeze.
You will simply stay—
and call it home.
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