When she returns,
it’s never innocent.
She slips through cracks
you forgot existed,
smirk sharpened
like a blade
she’s been hiding,
waiting for the right moment
to press it against
your pulse.

Her laughter,
a quiet threat;
her touch,
a loaded gun.
She didn’t come back
for comfort—
she’s here
to reclaim
what you stole,
even if it’s just
her pride,
shattered glass
she intends to leave
at your feet.

Every whispered word
is bait,
every lingering glance
a dare.
She’s tasting vengeance
on the tip of her tongue,
and you’ve become
her favorite poison.

Be careful:
this isn’t reconciliation,
it’s reckoning.
You can see it in her eyes,
the quiet hunger
to break you open
just one more time
before she leaves again—

this time,
on her terms.

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.

At first,
she loved me like she was begging the world
to do the same for her—
loud when it mattered,
quiet when it didn’t,
eyes wide, heart open,
always fucking there.

I thought it was just who she was—
the soft kind,
the type who shows up
even when you don’t deserve it.

So, I didn’t show up.
Not really.
Half-assed replies,
smirks instead of answers,
fed her crumbs
and acted like it was a feast.

She kept giving.
I kept taking.
And I called it balanced
because she didn’t leave.

But she was watching.
Learning.
Not the way I talked,
the way I didn’t.

And then—
something shifted.
Colder eyes.
Replies that felt like smoke.
No chase.
No reach.
Just space.
And silence where her softness used to be.

Now she moves like me.
Detached.
Strategic.
Unbothered.

And I hate it.
Not because she changed—
because I made her.

She stopped being who she was
and started being
what I showed her love looks like.

And now I finally get it.
She didn’t go cold.
She went even.

They walk like they own the goddamn planet.
Not just confidence—
cocky, oozing it,
like it’s leaking out their pores
with the cologne and creative.

Tight shirts,
rolled sleeves showing off arms
that probably get more action
than their rifles.
Tats like curated art—
not a single bad decision inked on skin.
Every fade is fresh.
Every smirk is earned.

You want to hate them.
You do.
But you can’t stop watching.

Boots spotless,
like they hover above dirt.
Somehow their sweat smells like aftershave,
like war’s just another gym set.
Even when they’re tired,
they flex.
Even when they lose,
they win.

They throw words like punches—
loud, fast,
always laughing
like the world’s a joke
they already got.

You look at them
and see G.I. Joe
crossed with a frat boy
who bench-presses pain
but never shows it.
Maybe it’s real.
Maybe it’s armor.

Either way,
they’re out here
turning combat boots into catwalks,
making the rest of us
feel like background noise.

Ken dolls with kill counts.
Too smooth to break.
Too cool to bleed.

Annoying as hell.
And somehow
unshakably
magnetic.

It’s not the walk,
though yeah, there’s a strut—
like your hips know something
the rest of us don’t.

It’s not the size.
(Though let’s be honest,
you’re not hurting in that department.)
It’s the pause before you speak—
not because you’re unsure,
but because you know they’ll wait.

It’s the eye contact
that says I will ruin you,
and the smile
that says but only if you ask nicely.

It’s showing up
like you didn’t even try,
but still manage to look
like sex walked in wearing your face.

It’s the joke that makes them blush,
and the silence after,
where nobody knows what to say—
because somehow,
you made “moist” sound poetic.

You don’t flex.
You just exist.
And somehow,
they’re already imagining
the things you do
with that mouth,
those hands,
that ego.

You don’t chase.
You invite.
And if they come running?
Of course they do.

That’s the energy.
It’s not just big—
it’s legendary.
And yeah,
you know it.