I am young in the way unfinished things are young—
a heart still learning where it’s allowed to land.
I ache for an older woman,
someone who knows how to stay,
who doesn’t flinch when love asks to be held gently.
I want her to see me and understand immediately—
the softness isn’t weakness,
the longing isn’t foolish.
I want her arms to feel like certainty,
like rules I don’t have to memorize,
like care that doesn’t disappear when I need it most.
I want her to take care of me
in the quiet ways that matter—
touch my hair like it’s something precious,
say my name like it’s safe to exist.
But I don’t want to just be someone’s girl.
I want to take care of her too.
I want to notice when her shoulders get tired,
when she forgets she’s allowed to rest,
when being strong has cost her more than she admits.
I want to love her with devotion,
with the kind of loyalty that listens,
that makes space for her softness
the way she makes space for mine.
And maybe this longing has a name.
Maybe it comes from growing up
needing comfort that never fully came,
learning to crave guidance, warmth, protection—
learning too early how to fend for myself.
Maybe this is what mommy issues look like:
wanting to be nurtured without being abandoned,
wanting love that feels older, steadier,
and am still trying to find.
the wanting doesn’t feel wrong.
It feels like a girl reaching for the kind of love
You don’t have to be alone anymore.