✨A story✨
She tried to love him,
but he wasn’t built for love—
not yet.
He was built to outrun lack,
to silence the memory of a mother
who waited too long for rescue.
And now,
he punishes the women who rest—
because rest,
looks too much like suffering.
He confuses productivity with protection,
control with commitment.
His father didn’t bring home enough,
so now he worships the God of Hustle—
and calls it “being a man.”
But the truth is:
he never felt safe in a house
where love was lost to fear.
So he trades intimacy for insurance.
He wants a partner who earns,
but not one who burns.
He wants her shiny, not sacred.
And she—
she would’ve stayed,
if only freedom had a seat at his table.
But she was never built to serve a man’s image.
She was called to raise children with her presence,
not raise a man with her paycheck.
She saw the mother wound
in his eyes
every time he looked at her
with resentment,
for choosing peace
over performance.
And so she left—
not because she hated him,
but because she loved herself
enough to break the spell.
⸻
She met another once—
a man who learned
violence from his father’s pulpit.
He wanted her soft,
until softness stood up to him.
Then he wanted her silent.
So he married a woman
The mirror of his mother—
docile, numb, moldable.
She was never allowed to wake up.
The church told her that obedience
was next to godliness.
So she traded her soul
for a seat in the pew.
And called it holy.
But the poet, the seer, the sacred one—
she couldn’t.
She wouldn’t.
She wasn’t born
to play the background
of a man’s broken movie.
She saw the script.
She rewrote it.
⸻
So she speaks now:
“May my son never carry this curse.
May angels unbind his spirit
from the lies of power and pain.
May he know that a woman’s strength
is not a threat,
but a mirror—
to the divine inside him.”
And with that prayer,
the wound begins to close.
Not with shame.
But with truth.
And the truth is this:
She is not beneath him.
She never was.
She never will be.