don’t ask me why i’m angry.
ask why i stayed quiet for so long.
six posts and i’ve barely scratched the surface.
sometimes silence rots inside you until it spills over.
and tonight, i let it spill.
now i need a glass of red and a crème brûlée, something sweet enough to quiet my tongue before it bites again.

i tell myself i’m done with men.
but then night falls, and i remember the warmth of a chest that didn’t deserve me.
toxic, isn’t it?
how even the ones who wound us linger like a stain we can’t wash out. yuck.

it’s almost tragic how men mistake possession for love.
to them, love is a cage.
to us, love is a door.
and somehow they wonder why women keep running.

a man once told me he “wasn’t like the others.”
and for a moment, i believed him.
turns out he was right.
he was worse.