Mommy Sees You

You’ve tried to hide it. Tucked it behind bravado, behind jokes, behind that little mask you wear so the world doesn’t see what you really are.

But I see you.

You don’t want to be broken by force. You want to be unmade with precision. You want someone who sees the soft, needy creature under all that noise—and smiles at it. Not with approval, but with ownership.

You crave a Mommy who’s warm… but cruel. Not screaming, not angry—just disappointed. Calm. Icy. Smirking. The kind of woman who calls you “baby” while patting your head like a dog. Who cups your cheek while telling you exactly how pathetic you are… and means it.

And the sickest part? That’s what makes you feel safe.

Because you don’t want to be comforted. You want to serve. You want to ache for every bit of affection. To be pushed down with a smile. Corrected with sweetness. You want to hear “good boy” in the same breath as “you’ll never be enough for Me.”

You want to be owned by someone who doesn’t need to shout. Who destroys you with soft power. With tone. With the weight of Her silence.

You want to fail for Her. And try harder anyway.

And in return? You don’t ask for much.

Just a place in her lap. A cruel word wrapped in care. A leash. A purpose. The slow, sweet agony of knowing you’ll never measure up—

but you’ll never leave, either.

Because you belong there. You always have.