They Wanted Skin. I Wanted Soul

I was supposed to launch this blog weeks ago.

But I was in the thick of it. I was spiralling. Deep in my feelings over my favourite situationship. The one that never gave me consistency, but somehow still took up space in my head and heart the last 9 months. Then I did something I thought I’d never do: I deleted him. Not unfollowed... Not muted.

Deleted.

And for someone who’s always kept the door cracked for him, just in case..

that shit felt final. Do you know how much of a menace to my mental health you have to be

for me to delete you mid-spiral? To say no more when my body still wanted one more reply? That’s what this platform is born from.

Not closure, because I haven’t got that.

Not empowerment..because I’m still healing.

But from the moment I realized:

They wanted skin. I wanted soul.

So if you’re reading this, just know I didn’t write it from a pedestal. I wrote it from the floor. This is what it looks like to start choosing myself before someone else forces me to…

I used to think if I could just be hot enough, they’d stay.

If I made them want me, maybe they’d love me.

Maybe they’d listen. Maybe they’d care.

I didn’t grow up feeling any sense of belonging or even feeling wanted if I’m being honest, and this of course set the tone for my adult life. People would praise my curves, flirt with my fire, get intoxicated by my energy, but very few stuck around long enough to actually see me or my depth.

And for a while, I thought maybe that was my role. To be seen. Not heard. It’s what I was told growing up, explicitly and implicitly. I was the tall girl with the loud laugh and soft heart, trying to shrink into the boxes men kept handing me. I’ve got a PHAT ass, barely any boobs, and a presence you can’t ignore…so I learned early how to contort myself into whatever version of “desirable” they seemed to want.

Be wild, but not too much.

Be sexy, but tasteful.

Be confident, but not intimidating.

And holy fuck, the amount of times I’ve watered myself down to fit into a man’s comfort zone should qualify as a natural disaster.

It got to the point where I wasn’t even sure who I was dressing for, or posting for, or holding back for. I’d take photos I loved, then pause. What if my ex sees this? What if that new guy I like thinks I’m a slut? What will family think? I was censoring my expression to keep people comfortable who never really tried to understand me anyway.

Then came him.

The one who flipped my insides out. The one who felt different than the rest. He actually seemed emotionally intelligent and could hear me even when I was quiet. For the first time, I didn’t play games. I started letting him in and actually showed up.. I tried to learn his soul like a second language. I sat in his silence. I leaned into the hard parts. I wanted to be his safe place. His home. But he still didn’t meet me there. He eventually looked at my heart and saw pressure.

He looked at my love and saw a threat. So he pulled away. And I kept holding on.. not because he was giving me anything,

but because I kept hoping that if I just loved better, he’d finally let me in.
Guess what? he didn’t.

And I felt PATHETIC.

And that’s when I realized..

I’ve been breaking my own heart trying to prove I’m still worth it.

So here I am. Posting what I want. Writing what I feel. Owning my power without asking permission. I’m done being admired but not heard. Done molding myself for men who fear intimacy. Done shrinking in rooms I was born to take up space in.

You can call me too much. You can call me delusional.

But you better put divine right after it.

Welcome to Delusional & Divine

We’re just getting started.

Everything is still aligned,

Mel