THE PATTERN - October 31 – November 11, 2022 | Breaking the Cycle of a Trauma Bond

Описание: A spoken word poem about repeating cycles, trauma bonds, and returning to what hurts.
A reflection on attachment, longing, and the pull of unfinished love.

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Written text:
I try to walk away,
my crippled heart dragging behind me through the ache,
pretending this is truly over—
that this ending
isn’t another fragile, temporary shape.

I tell myself the quiet nights
will teach me how to breathe again,
yet every dusk unfolds your shadow,
whispering my name
in vain.
And longing builds—
ferocious, primal—
haunting every sleepless hour.
I feed myself illusions
just to soften its growing power.

But when you write
to say you miss the pieces
only I could give,
my trembling soul falls to its knees—
too willing still
to let you live
inside me.
I run back to you in moments,
pulled by something old and fever-true—
a gravity that mocks my healing,
ripping open every bruise
anew.
Your scent devours distance,
pulls me back
into the warmth you wear;
your arms become a fragile shelter
built from hopes and whispered prayers.

And my journal holds the truth
I try to silence in my waking mind:
“How we kissed.
How we melted.
How our bodies realigned.
How it felt like coming home,
how longing softened into grace…
I was yours—instantly—
the second I returned
to that place.”

Dawn spills across the balcony,
our laughter rising with the steam,
and I confess softly to my pages—
half afraid it isn’t real,
half afraid it is:

“Of course I’m shattered once again.
The avalanche returned to claim
everything I denied for weeks,
though every pulse
still whispered your name.
It isn’t over—never was—
and though I fear the truth I find,
I can’t deny what echoes still
inside the chambers of my mind.”

But something shifts—
quietly,
deep in my bones,
in the trembling of my chest.
A new desire forms,
shaped by love I never fully confessed:
the urge to stay beside you,
to make you feel chosen
when you shake,
to share the tiny sacred moments,
to hold the wishes
that you make.

The days ignite—
slow-burning embers turning into molten firelight.
Our intimacy deepens in the shadows,
growing fierce,
growing bright;
complicity becomes its own language,
spoken only through our skin,
and trust unfurls its tender roots
where I once feared
to let you in.
You feel me.
You know my pulse.
You know how I read you
without sound—
how something ancient lives between us,
haunting everything around.

“Now I’m certain,” I write trembling,
“that there’s truth in what we feel,
though I can’t see if it will last,
or fade,
or cut too deep
to heal.
It’s strange, bewildering, wild—
too magic to ignore or tame,
a labyrinth of half-light shadows
where nothing stays,
and nothing’s the same.”

And so the pattern rises—
subtle at first,
then loud enough to burn.
A cycle I know by heart
yet still return to,
turn by turn.
The fall.
The pull.
The sweet undoing wrapped in danger’s soft caress.

And I obey its cruel enchantment,
swept again
into your abyss.
Because some stories don’t quite end—
they fold,
they break,
they twist instead—
and I, still yearning,
still undone,
keep following
the thread.

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This text may not be reproduced or distributed without written permission.
Instrumental generated with AI assistance.

#TraumaBond
#LoveCycle
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