Being with me isn’t just sex; it’s an act of prying open a vessel I’ve kept nailed shut. My body isn’t just something to be enjoyed. My pussy is a Pandora’s box. It looks inviting on the outside, but anyone who dares to open it will be met with the shame, memories, and traumas that I’ve worked so hard to hide. Once those truths spill out, they can’t be put back, and I’m terrified the darkness inside me will break someone else as badly as it has broken me.

There’s a misconception that people like me don’t want to be close. The truth is much messier. I ache for connection; I’m capable of loving intensely. I just don’t know how to receive love without flinching. My fear is rooted in neglect, in old wounds, in a childhood that taught me trust meant pain. On one side there’s the terror of being abandoned when someone sees how broken I am. On the other, there’s the fear of being swallowed by their expectations. So I stand in the middle, begging for someone to hold me and then pushing them away the second they get too close.

To show someone all of that feels like inviting judgment. Vulnerability can deepen love, but it also opens me to rejection. It feels safer to hint at my past instead of handing anyone the key to my locked chest. I tell myself I’m protecting them, but really I’m protecting myself from the humiliation of needing someone. Each time I shut down or disappear, I reinforce the story in my head that I am unlovable.

I’ve tried to outrun these feelings by pretending they don’t exist, but suppressing them only makes them louder. The pain I avoid doesn’t dissolve; it festers. The ugly, messy emotions are warning signals, begging me to pay attention. Facing them is terrifying, but necessary. It’s the only way to understand why I keep hurting myself and the people who try to love me.

I want to believe that sharing my history won’t poison someone else. And yet every time I start to open up, I imagine my darkness spilling over and staining the person who cares about me. It seems easier to let people go than to risk ruining them with my chaos. I’ve gotten used to isolation; it feels familiar. But sometimes I wonder what might happen if I stop running. Maybe if I let someone see me shaking and broken and stay anyway, I’d finally learn that love doesn’t have to destroy. Perhaps the very thing I fear could save me.