u/LucienMoon

I don’t regret it.

I don’t regret a single thing
I gave you.

Not the time.

Not the money.

Not the love
I gave you
even when it felt wasted.

Because when I love someone,

I don’t do it quietly.

I can’t.

Because I believe
everyone deserves to be loved
as loudly as possible.

I don’t think love
should be something
you’re ashamed of.

Something you hide.

Something you keep quiet
because you’re afraid
of being too much.

I think if you love someone,

you should let them know.

As loudly as you can.

And it doesn’t always have
to be with words.

Sometimes it’s in the way
you show up.

The way you listen.

The way you remember
the little things.

The way you make space
for someone to be themselves.

The way you look at someone
and tell them without speaking,

“I see you.”

So no.

I don’t regret it.

And I’ll do it again.

And again.

And again.

Even if I stumble.

Even if I fall.

Even if I give my heart
to someone who doesn’t know
what to do with it.

I’ll still get back up.

Because I don’t want
to become someone
who loves less
just because loving deeply
once hurt me.

I’ll keep stumbling.

I’ll keep falling.

And I’ll keep getting back up
every single time.

Not because I need someone
to prove that the way I love
is worth it.

But because it is.

Because loving deeply
isn’t something
I need to apologize for.

I don’t need someone
to tell me I’m not too much.

I don’t need someone
to understand every part of me
for my love to have meaning.

I can love loudly
because that’s who I am.

I can care deeply
without being ashamed of it.

I can give love
without losing myself
when it isn’t returned.

And maybe that’s what
I was trying to learn
all along.

That love doesn’t become wasted
just because it wasn’t received
the way I hoped.

That giving love
doesn’t make me foolish.

That caring
doesn’t make me weak.

And that I don’t have to
make myself smaller
just because someone else
couldn’t hold everything
I had to give.

So no.

I don’t regret it.

I don’t regret loving.

I don’t regret caring.

And I don’t regret
being someone
who loves loudly.

I’ll keep doing it.

Not because I’m waiting
for someone to finally see me,

but because I see myself.

And I know
there is nothing wrong
with the way I love.

You don’t get to tell me what I remember.

You don’t get to take eighteen years of my life
and fold them into a sentence
about how we all remember things differently.

Because I remember.

I remember enough.

I remember the things
I was too young to understand
but old enough to feel.

I remember the things
I was too scared to say.

I remember learning
that sometimes silence
was safer than honesty.

And I hate that I learned that from you.

I hate that I learned how to read a room
before I learned how to trust one.

I hate that I became good
at hiding what hurt
because somewhere along the way
I stopped believing anyone would care
if I told them.

And you know what makes me angry?

I spent years
thinking that was my fault.

I picked myself apart
trying to find the version of me
you could have loved.

Maybe I was too angry.

Maybe I was too difficult.

Maybe I was too sensitive.

Maybe I needed too much.

Maybe—

if I had just been better—

you would’ve been better to me.

Do you know what that does to a kid?

To grow up thinking
love is something you earn
by becoming easier to love?

I carried that question
for years.

“What was wrong with me?”

And the worst part?

I believed there had to be an answer.

Because children don’t usually look at the adults
who hurt them and think,

“Maybe the adult failed me.”

They look at themselves.

They think,

“It must have been me.”

So I became angry.

Really angry.

Angry at you.

Angry at myself.

Angry at every birthday
that came and went
with things I wished were different.

Angry at every memory
I couldn’t rewrite.

Angry that I had to learn strength
before I ever got to learn
what safety felt like.

And I wanted you to understand.

God,
I wanted you to understand.

I wanted you to look at me
and finally say,

“I know.”

Not—

“We remember things differently.”

Not—

“That isn’t how I remember it.”

Not an explanation.

Not a defense.

Not a debate.

Just—

“I know.”

I wanted you to understand
that I wasn’t trying to destroy you.

I was trying to explain
what happened to me.

But the longer I waited for you
to understand,

the more I realized
I was giving you
the power to decide
whether my pain was real.

And you don’t get that power anymore.

Because I was there.

I know what I felt.

I know what that little boy carried.

And nobody gets to erase a memory
just because they remember
standing somewhere else in the room.

But somewhere beneath all that anger,
something started changing.

The anger got tired.

And underneath it,
I found grief.

Real grief.

Not just for what happened.

For what never did.

For the mother I needed.

For the childhood I deserved.

For all the times
I needed someone to protect me
and didn’t know how to ask.

For all the times
I wanted to hear,

“You’re safe.”

And never knew
how badly I needed it.

And that’s when I realized—

maybe I wasn’t angry
because I hated you.

Maybe I was angry
because some part of me
was still waiting for you.

Still waiting at the door.

Still hoping that one day
you would walk through it
and finally see me.

Not the angry version.

Not the difficult version.

Not the version
you remember.

Me.

And maybe that little boy
will always wish you had.

But I can’t spend my whole life
standing at a door
waiting for someone
who may never come through it.

So I’m walking away.

Not dramatically.

Not because I stopped caring.

Not because what happened
suddenly became okay.

I’m walking away
because I finally understand
that carrying the anger
doesn’t make the past hurt less.

It only makes me carry it
into the future.

And I don’t want to.

I don’t want to carry you
into every room I enter.

I don’t want to hear your voice
every time I doubt myself.

I don’t want eighteen years
to become the rest of my life.

So I’m putting it down.

The anger.

The questions.

The waiting.

The need for an apology
that may never come.

I’m putting down
the version of me
who thought he had to earn love.

And I’m picking up something else.

My voice.

My life.

My future.

And maybe forgiveness
isn’t what this ending needs.

Maybe I don’t have to forgive
before I’m allowed to heal.

Maybe I don’t have to forget
to move forward.

Maybe peace
isn’t pretending it didn’t hurt.

Maybe peace is saying,

“Yes.

It hurt.

It mattered.

It changed me.

But it doesn’t own me anymore.”

Because I know something now
that I wish I had known then.

I wasn’t broken.

I was a kid.

A kid trying to make sense
of things he never should have had
to make sense of alone.

And he deserved to be heard.

He deserved to be protected.

He deserved to be loved
without having to become
someone else first.

And when I look back at him now,

I don’t feel angry anymore.

I feel proud.

Because somehow,
through everything,

he kept going.

He kept loving.

He kept hoping.

And eventually,
he found a voice.

A voice strong enough
to say what happened.

A voice strong enough
to stop asking permission
to remember it.

And now,
for the first time,

I can say your name
without giving it
the rest of me.

I can remember
without reliving.

I can grieve
without drowning.

I can let go
without pretending
I was never hurt.

And I can finally tell
that little boy the one thing
he should’ve heard
all those years ago:

You weren’t the problem.

You never had to be.

And you don’t have to carry it anymore.

Neither of us does.

So this is where
the anger ends.

Not with revenge.

Not with an apology.

Not with you finally admitting
what I already know.

It ends here.

With me.

Choosing peace.

Not because you gave it to me.

Because I finally learned
how to give it to myself.

Sometimes you don’t know it’s the last time
until it’s too late.

Sometimes you’ll never know
someone was asking for help.

Because it might not be loud.
It might not be obvious.

Sometimes,
it’s just a small change.

A little quieter than usual.
A little more distant.
A little more hesitant to be alone.

They might ask to hang out
because they think being around you
will make things a little easier.

They might say,
“I love you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s always nice to be around you.”

Not because those words
always mean something is wrong,

but because sometimes
they’re trying to reach for someone
without knowing how to say,

“I need you.”

There are so many ways
someone can ask for help.

And sometimes,
the fact that they’re trying
is the part you need to notice.

They don’t want to be alone.

They want the weight
to feel a little lighter.

They want to know
someone cares.

Sometimes the pain
becomes too heavy to carry alone.

So please.

Listen.

Not just for the words,
but for the changes.

Notice when someone
starts pulling away.

Notice when they seem different.

And most importantly,
reach out.

Because sometimes
the person who needs help
isn’t going to say,

“I need help.”

Sometimes,

they’re just asking

you

to stay.

When I have kids,

I’ll know it wasn’t my fault.

I’ll realize
that loving something you created
isn’t all that hard.

When I have kids,

I’ll know I’m not to blame.

I’ll show them love
even when I’m struggling.

I’ll look into their eyes
and see the universe.

I’ll see something
worth protecting.

Something worth loving.

I’ll let them know
that being born
was never a burden.

That they never have to wonder
if they were meant to be here.

They’ll never have to earn
the right to be loved.

They’ll know that mistakes
don’t make them worthless.

That struggling
doesn’t make them a burden.

That being a child
doesn’t mean they have to
carry the weight of the world.

I’ll teach them that chores
aren’t servitude.

They’re a way to care
for the place we call home.

I’ll let them be themselves.

I’ll let them laugh.

I’ll let them cry.

I’ll let them make mistakes
and try again.

And I’ll tell them
I’m proud of them
not because of what they did,

but because they’re my child.

Because they’re here.

Because they exist.

And maybe,

when I’m looking into their eyes,

I’ll finally understand
something I spent years
trying to believe.

I was always enough.

I always deserved love.

I never had to justify
why I deserved to exist.

I never had to prove
that I was worth keeping.

I was just a child.

And that’s all
I ever needed to be.

Because when I have kids,

I won’t be so busy
trying to justify
everything that went wrong.

I’ll be looking into their eyes.

I’ll see the universe.

I’ll see everything
I want to protect.

Everything I want
to give them.

And maybe,

when I see how easy it is
to look at a child
and see nothing
but something precious,

I’ll finally understand

that I was precious too.

That I was always enough.

And I’ll make sure
my children never have
to wonder if they are.

It was never your fault.

You were just a child.

It was never your fault.

You were too young
to understand
why the person
who should have protected you
was hurting you.

It was never your fault.

Not when you went without
what you needed.

Not when you carried pain
that no child
should have had to carry.

Not when you were left
with wounds
no one else could see.

It was never your fault.

When punishment
became something
you learned to fear.

When you were forced
to endure things
you never should have known.

It was never your fault.

But I thought it was.

I looked at you
and saw weakness.

I saw someone
who couldn’t fight back.

Someone who couldn’t
make it stop.

So I buried you.

I pushed you so far down
that no one could hear you.

Not your screams.

Not your fear.

Not the little voice
asking someone
to help you.

I buried the memories.

I buried the pain.

I buried you.

And I thought
if I buried you deeply enough,

I could finally become
someone stronger.

Someone who didn’t hurt.

Someone who didn’t need
to remember.

But you never deserved
to be buried.

You deserved
to be found.

You deserved
someone to kneel beside you
and tell you,

“None of this is your fault.”

You deserved
to hear it then.

Not years later.

Not after carrying
all that weight
by yourself.

You were a child.

You didn’t cause it.

You didn’t deserve it.

You weren’t weak
for being afraid.

You weren’t broken
for being hurt.

You weren’t responsible
for the person who hurt you.

It was never your fault.

And I wish
I had known that
so long ago.

I wish I had protected you
instead of blaming you.

I wish I had held you
instead of burying you.

But I know now.

And I can finally
reach through the rubble
and find you.

I can finally tell you
what you should have heard
all those years ago:

You didn’t deserve it.

You weren’t the problem.

You were just a child.

And none of it

not one moment,

not one wound,

not one memory

was ever your fault.

Poetry has changed something.

Something inside me.

Something that spent years
screaming
and clawing
at the world around it.

For so long,

the rage had nowhere to go.

It lived inside my chest,

pacing behind my ribs,

looking for somewhere
to escape.

But now,

I give it paper.

I give it words.

And somehow,

that’s enough.

I can feel the rubble
beginning to move.

Piece by piece,

stone by stone,

something buried beneath it
is finally beginning
to breathe.

A child.

A boy
I buried so deeply
that I don’t even remember
his name anymore.

He was underneath
all of it.

The anger.

The fear.

The memories.

The things I became
just to survive.

The rage is still there.

It still screams sometimes.

Still claws at the walls.

Still tells me to

kick,

punch,

yell,

break something,

make the world
feel what I feel.

But now
there is another voice.

A quieter one
at first.

One that says,

“Write it down.”

So I do.

“Let them see it.”

So I do.

“Let them see you.”

And slowly,

that voice became louder.

Not because
the rage disappeared,

but because
I finally realized

the voice answering it

was mine.

I can take everything
I don’t know how to say

and turn it into words.

I can take the memories
that once lived only
inside my head

and put them somewhere
outside of me.

I can let people see
the person nobody usually sees.

The child beneath
the rubble.

The person beneath
the anger.

The version of me
I used to be.

The version of me
I want to become.

And the version
standing here now.

And somehow,

people see me.

They read my words

and understand.

Not everything.

They don’t have to.

They just understand
enough to know

that there is a person
behind the words.

Someone who hurt.

Someone who made mistakes.

Someone who is still learning.

Someone who is still here.

They don’t judge me
for my past.

They don’t reduce me
to my worst moments.

And maybe some people
will judge me.

Maybe some people
won’t understand.

Maybe some people
will look at my words
and decide they don’t like
what they see.

And that’s okay.

Because their judgment
doesn’t get to take
the words away from me.

The rage finally
has somewhere to go.

It doesn’t have to
destroy anything anymore.

It can become a poem.

A memory.

A page.

A voice.

A bridge between me
and someone else
who thought they were
the only one feeling
this way.

And somewhere beneath
all that rubble,

that little boy
is still there.

I don’t remember
his name.

But I’m starting
to remember him.

And every poem I write

is another stone
I lift away.

Another piece
of the weight
that buried him.

Until one day,

maybe he’ll finally
see the light.

Maybe he’ll finally
understand

that the rage
was never all
that he was.

It was just
what he carried

when he had nowhere
else to put his pain.

Now he does.

I do.

Because the rage
finally has a place
to go.

Just a heads-up that it’s pretty heavy and personal. It touches on childhood trauma, emotional abuse, neglect, family issues, PTSD, grief, fear, and references to violence/death.

I used to believe
the world would be better
if I disappeared.

I thought
maybe my absence
would finally make my mother happy.

Maybe my brother
wouldn’t have needed
to trade his childhood
for mine.

Maybe the house
would finally be quiet.

For years,

I was told
I was never supposed
to exist.

And eventually,

I believed it.

The beatings became
so unbearable
that sometimes
death seemed gentler
than another morning.

I thought
maybe there was something
wrong with me.

Maybe I really was
the monster
they told me I was.

So I built armor.

Not because
I wanted to become cruel,

but because
the boy underneath it
was hurting too badly
to survive without it.

Anger became my shield.

Rage became my weapon.

When I couldn’t speak,

I threw things.

When I couldn’t cry,

I punched walls.

Sometimes people.

Sometimes
I lost pieces of time,

and when I came back,

there were things
I couldn’t remember doing.

But they happened.

I did them.

The boy inside the armor
was so lost
that hurting became
the only language
he knew how to speak.

And the more he hurt,

the thicker the armor became.

Until everyone
could see the monster

and almost no one
could see the boy.

Then she did.

She didn’t see
the fists first.

She saw the hands
that were shaking.

She didn’t see
the rage first.

She saw the tears
hiding underneath it.

She didn’t look at the armor
and decide
there was nothing underneath.

She waited.

Even when I hurt her.

Even when I damaged
the things she owned.

Even when I hurt others.

She stayed.

Not because
what I did was okay.

But because
she understood
that the boy who did those things
was hurting too.

And slowly,

she began to remove
the armor.

Not with force.

Not with punishment.

Not with demands
that I become someone else.

She simply cared.

And somehow,

that was enough.

Piece by piece,

the shield became lighter.

The rage became quieter.

And underneath it,

she found me.

Not a monster.

Not a burden.

Not a mistake.

Just a boy
who had spent so long
fighting for his right to exist
that he had forgotten
what it felt like
to simply be alive.

She reminded me.

She told me
it was never my fault
that someone hurt me.

That being hurt
didn’t make me worthless.

That what happened to me
didn’t determine
what I would become.

And for the first time,

I began to wonder

if maybe

I was allowed
to exist.

Not because
I had earned it.

Not because
I had become good enough.

But because
I was human.

And that’s all
I ever wanted.

To be treated
like a human being.

To be seen
without the armor.

To be loved
without having to earn it.

She isn’t connected
to me by blood.

But blood
was never what made her
my mother.

She saw the boy
beneath the armor.

She stayed
when the armor
was at its heaviest.

And she taught me
that the boy underneath
was worth saving.

So if anyone asks me
who my mother is,

I won’t point
to the woman
who gave me life.

I’ll point
to the woman
who taught me
that my life
was worth keeping.

She didn’t give me
the title of son.

She earned
the title of Mom.

Anyone know any good builds for going through the game? As well as for bosses? On ng+. Especially with the dlcs? Thats where i struggle the most

You turned me into a monster.
Then blamed me
for being born that way.
But I wasn’t born a monster.
You made me one.
You took a child
and tore him apart,
piece by piece,
over,
and over,
and over,
until there was barely anything
left to tear.
You looked at me
and didn’t see a child.
You saw something
that could be broken.
Something you could
rip apart
and rebuild
however you wanted.
You told me
I was nothing.
Worthless.
Never enough.
Never meant to be.
And I believed you.
I carried your words
inside my head
until they stopped
sounding like yours.
They became mine.
Now sometimes
I hear them again.
That voice telling me
I’m worthless.
That voice telling me
I’ll never change.
That voice telling me
that no matter how hard
I try,
I’ll always be
what you made me.
I want to rip those words
out of my mind.
I want to claw them
from my thoughts,
tear them from
every corner
of my memory,
and leave them
somewhere in the past
where they belong.
But I can’t erase you.
You’re my mother.
No matter how far
I run from what happened,
you are still a part
of my history.
A name written
into the pages
of my childhood.
And I hate that.
I hate that someone
who hurt me so deeply
will always be connected
to the person I became.
But maybe
I don’t have to erase you.
Maybe I just have to
stop letting you
write the rest of my story.
So I tell myself:
I am someone.
I am worth something.
I was meant to be here.
I deserve to exist.
I deserve to be loved.
I deserve to be more
than the things
you called me.
And God,
it’s hard.
It’s hard to look
into the mirror
and not see
the person you created.
Hard to look at my body
and hear your voice
telling me it isn’t enough.
Hard to try to change,
to work,
to become healthier,
while that old voice
whispers that I’ll never
be different.
But I’m trying.
I keep trying.
Because maybe healing
isn’t erasing the scars.
Maybe it’s learning
to look at them
and understand
they aren’t proof
that you were right.
They’re proof
that I survived
what you did.
The scars may take years
to fade.
Some may never disappear
completely.
But they’re mine now.
Not yours.
And slowly,
day by day,
I’m taking back
the pieces of myself
you convinced me
didn’t deserve to exist.
The anger.
The fear.
The child.
The body.
The voice.
The life.
All of it.
You may have had
a hand in creating
the monster I became,
but you don’t get
to decide
what comes next.
Because I’m learning
something you never taught me:
I am not what happened to me.
I am not what you called me.
I am not the monster
you made.
I am the person
who survived you.
And now,
I’m learning
how to become
someone you never imagined
I could be.