Never play games with a woman who isn’t afraid to be alone.

Never play games with a woman

who’s learned the taste of midnight alone,

who’s made peace with her own quiet,

who’s survived the drought of empty calls

and the ache of fading seasons.

She’s stitched her wounds in silence,

dried her own tears,

stood steady when storms came

and no one noticed.

She doesn’t bargain for love—

no breadcrumbs, no half-offers,

no tangled webs of maybe or almost.

She knows her worth

is not up for debate.

You can’t win her with borrowed affection,

or confuse her with disappearing acts.

She’s fluent in absence,

fluent in the language of her own company.

Validation? She grew it in her garden,

watered it with patience,

harvested it with her own hands.

She doesn’t chase.

She doesn’t plead.

When your games reveal your heart,

she won’t rage or unravel.

She’ll simply gather her peace,

wrap it around her shoulders,

and walk—soft and sure—back to herself.

To love her is a privilege,

not a project.

She stays by choice,

never from need.

And if you offer less than calm,

less than truth,

she’ll subtract you—quietly,

like closing a book

that’s already been read.

She is her own shelter,

her own home,

and she will never be afraid

to lock the door behind her.

So beware—the wars you wage with absence or deceit won’t bend her will.

Her life stands firm: whole and untethered by need.

Never play games with a woman who has mastered being alone.