Why I’ll Never Be His Wife

He asked. More than once. That shit annoys the fuck out of me. He came with
rings, keys and slavery disguised as promises of love. He wanted to give me his last name. For what?
I’ve always preferred when men offered me their soul.

They want me to be a wife so bad. Wives are trophies but I am a test. Men give wives rules. I write my own rules. I don’t want to wait for anniversaries. I’m the kind of woman who gives unforgettable moments that brand themselves into his psyche without a calendar.

Now let me say this before I continue, I respect marriage. But I do not belong to tradition; I belong to power.

There’s a dangerous misunderstanding about women like me. They think I’m cold because I say no to a ring.
They also think I’m damaged because I deny labels, and they assume I haven’t been loved.

THEY ARE WRONG! Deadass wrong!
I’ve been worshipped. Literally

Not because I demand it, but because I earned it through my discipline, mystery, and silence. I create a sanctuary, not aroutine. I become his escape, his prayer, his mirror, not his responsibility.

Wives get tired, but as a Mistress, I get tributes. And the truth is, every man I’ve ever touched still dreams of kneeling. Not for sex or love, but to feel peace.

I don’t chase or nag. Like most women who feel the need to be seen or validated ,I don’t repeat myself. I observe, instruct, then dis-a-fucking-ppear. And when I do reappear, it’s not for attention, it’s for control.

You want to know why I’ll never be a wife?

Because marriage is a contract.
And I only sign deals I write.