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i hate the notion that traumatized people have to be sweet, kind, defenseless beings, and that this is the only way any of them will be loved. because damaged goods still need to be good somehow.

my trauma made me paranoid, insecure, detached; it planted a seed of rage deep within me that took roots as the years went by untreated.

my trauma caused me to live on pure instincts. i became cunning, sharp, mean.

am i not worthy of love too?

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BAD DOG (static version), 02/27/2022

original poetry, collage, and edit by @traumacure | do not repost © (ok to reblog)

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blood series pt 5

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Maybe I am a monster

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don’t act so fucking surprised,

YOU MADE ME THE WAY I AM.

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I'm always the fucking problem.

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someone please tell me im good

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~m.