You don’t love men—
you impersonate them.
Steal his words.
Wear his habits.
Try on his soul like a jacket
until it stops getting you attention.
Then? You rot.
You cheat.
You discard.
Every. Single. Time.
2.5 years is all you’ve got.
Then the timer hits,
and suddenly you’re confused,
you need space,
you’re the victim again.
You lie with a straight face
and legs already open for the exit plan.
And he—whoever the next sucker is—
won’t know he’s just the latest mask holder
until he sees you scroll right past him
in your next identity.
No woman who knows love
leaves like you do.
No woman with depth
cheats like it’s strategy.
You’re not heartbroken.
You’re shapeless.
And you’ll spend your life
echoing whoever’s closest—
until someone finally leaves you first.