I’m Not His Good Girl

I’m the Storm He Keeps Coming Back To

He tells himself I’m the problem.

That I’m too much. Too reactive. Too hard to love.

And yet, he comes back.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He’ll pretend he wants peace, but I know the truth.

He wants to be undone.

He wants the fight. The chaos. The fire.

He wants a woman who reminds him he’s still alive.

I’m not his good girl.

I’m the storm he keeps coming back to.

The one he swears he’s done with until his hands are on my throat again,

whispering that I make him crazy.

And I do.

On purpose.

Because I love watching him unravel in the name of love.

He wants to fix me.

But he never brings tools.

Just his mouth and a handful of apologies he’ll never mean.

And I let him.

Because being worshipped in a warzone still feels holier than being loved in silence.

Let them have their soft girls.

I was made for men who ache for turmoil.

Men who need a little hell with their heaven.

Men who call me a curse and still pass out peacefully on my chest.