I was raised where love sounded like war
Where the walls shook not from laughter,
But from voices sharp enough to cut through silence.
Where “I love you” was whispered in public,
But fists spoke louder behind closed doors.
I grew up learning that love…
Was something you had to survive.
And so, I survived.
Through nights where sleep was a distant stranger,
Through mornings where silence sat heavy,
A quiet that came only after storms.
They thought I wouldn’t remember
But I did.
I remembered how plates shattered like promises,
How words, once spoken, could never be swallowed back.
I remembered the sound of footsteps
Not soft and warm, but heavy and angry.
I was raised in a home where love had sharp edges.
And even when the fights stopped,
The echoes never did.
You see, they moved on
Forgave, forgot, called it the past.
But no one told my heart how to unlearn the fear.
No one told my body that raised voices wouldn’t always mean danger.
Now, every argument feels like a battlefield.
And even the smallest shout
Feels like a sharp sting, touching old wounds.
It’s like my heart jumps before my mind catches up.
I don’t trust easy
Not because I want to be distant,
But because I know how quickly love can turn into war.
How quickly a smile can turn into a threat,
And how words, once sweet, can leave bruises unseen.
They say love is patient.
But patience was never what I saw.
Love was loud, unpredictable, and exhausting.
And when someone raises their voice
Even if it’s not at me
I shrink.
I shrink because somewhere inside,
A child still waits for the next explosion.
Still fears that love will always mean pain.
And relationships?
They became puzzles I couldn’t solve.
How do you trust someone to hold your heart,
When the ones who taught you love
Only showed you how to break it?
I try, though.
I try to believe love can be soft
That voices don’t always have to rise to be heard.
I try to breathe when my heart races for no reason,
To remind myself that not everyone leaves wounds.
But some nights
When the world gets quiet,
The echoes come back.
The sound of anger, the weight of fear,
The feeling that love is something you survive, not enjoy.
I want to believe
That love can be gentle.
That home doesn’t have to hurt.
That voices can be raised in laughter, not rage.
But healing?
It’s a slow road.
And some parts of me are still learning,
That not every fight means the end.
So if I pull back when you speak too loud,
It’s not you, it’s the ghosts I carry.
If I pull away when you get too close,
It’s not rejection, it’s a heart still learning to trust.
Because I was raised where love sounded like war.
But now,
I’m trying to learn a different song.
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