She didn’t need spells.
Didn’t need incense or fire.
Just knew how to look at you
like she saw something you didn’t.

Didn’t say much—
didn’t have to.
Everything she gave felt
intentional,
like she was measuring out
just enough to keep me hooked
but never full.

She knew what silence did.
Used it like a blade.
Every pause in her voice
felt like a test
I didn’t know I was failing.

It wasn’t love.
It was something colder.
Smarter.
Like she’d played this game before
and already knew
where I’d trip.

I kept telling myself
I was in control.
That I could walk any time.
But I didn’t.
Because the truth is—
I liked the way she messed with my head.

I liked the pull.
The way she made absence feel
louder than presence.

She didn’t wreck me all at once.
She just rewired shit slowly,
until everything that didn’t feel like her
felt off.

And now—
even when she’s gone—
I still hear the echo.

That’s her voodoo.
Nothing supernatural.
Just precision.