Why I’ll Never Be His Wife

He asked. More than once.
Rings. Keys. Promises.
He wanted to give me his last name.
But I’ve always preferred when men gave me their soul.

Wives are trophies. I am a test.
Wives are given rules. I write them.
Wives wait for anniversaries. I give 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 think I’m damaged because I deny labels, and they assume I haven’t been loved.
THEY ARE WRONG!
I’ve been worshipped.

Not because I demand it, but because I earned it through my discipline, mystery, and silence. I create sanctuary, not routine.
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. I don’t nag. I don’t repeat myself.
I observe, instruct, the 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.