THE PERSISTENT ONE
I. The Soft Beginnings
At first, it was gentle—
a feather’s tap on a windowpane,
a voice humming outside the garden gate,
a presence so polite it seemed woven
from spring wind and scattered petals.
They spoke your name
as though tasting honey for the first time,
smiled as though the sun had whispered secrets
meant only for them.
It was innocent, or near enough.
Just a gaze lingering too long,
a question asked twice,
an eagerness misplaced
but not yet menacing.
Even their footsteps on the path behind you
felt like coincidence—
a rhythm easily forgiven,
a dance of near-misses and harmless shadows
falling where you walked.
But persistence grows teeth
when watered too often.
---
II. The Shift Beneath the Surface
The wind thickened around their words.
Their compliments hardened,
calcified into claims:
You are meant for me.
I have chosen you.
Fate doesn’t lie.
Their smile sharpened
into something that ate the room around it,
that devoured space,
that demanded return,
as though your breath itself
owed them gratitude.
The path behind you began to echo—
not with chance,
but with intent.
Your shadow was no longer lonely;
it had a twin,
a silhouette glued to yours
by the fever of their longing.
And still they called it love.
As though love were a net.
As though love were a leash.
As though love were a throne
where only they could sit
and you must kneel.
---
III. The Delusion Blossoms
Their persistence swelled—
not like a flower
but like a storm brewing in a sealed jar.
They learned the weight of your footsteps,
the cadence of your speech,
the pattern of your routines
with the reverence of a zealot
reading scripture rewritten in your skin.
You were no longer a person.
You were a prophecy they had carved
into the walls of their mind,
a sovereign territory
they believed entitled to claim.
Each no you gave
echoed in their skull
and warped into
Try harder.
Push further.
They don’t know what they want yet.
Their reflection in the mirror
began to crack—
for who were they
if not your destined one?
Who were they
if the world was not aligned
with their fantasy?
Their eyes widened,
glazed with the delirium of certainty—
an entitlement born from a life
where every desire
had always bowed before them.
Until you.
The first thing to refuse.
The first stone in their golden road
that would not move
no matter how they kicked it.
And so they decided
you must be reshaped.
For them.
For fate.
For the story they had written
with themselves as hero
and you as reward.
---
IV. The Descent Into Entitlement
They followed you
not with footsteps anymore
but with intention—
heavy, humid, suffocating.
They appeared at the edge of crowds,
at the bend of streets,
in reflections
where they did not belong.
Their smile was gone.
Replaced by a smirk
too proud to be human,
too sure to be sane.
They spoke of destiny
as though the word were a blade—
cutting away your boundaries,
paring your no
down to nothing.
You heard their whispers:
They are mine.
They just don’t see it yet.
They will.
Their voice crawled into the corners
of your nights,
into the thin places where sleep frays,
into the small dark
where fear wakes.
Every boundary you placed
became a challenge.
Every plea for distance
became encouragement.
Every moment of silence
became a blank page
for their delusion to scrawl upon.
---
V. The Supremacist Crown
Their obsession matured
into a twisted coronation.
They appointed themselves
sovereign of your existence,
ruler of what you should feel,
prophet of what you would become
if only you listened
to the sacred script
written by their swollen self-regard.
They believed your autonomy
was a misunderstanding—
a flaw in perception
that they would correct.
They believed your fear
was simply reluctance
that love (their love)
would beat into submission.
They wore entitlement
as armor.
They wielded persistence
as weapon.
And in their kingdom of fantasy,
you were a possession—
a jewel,
a token,
a trophy glimmering on a pedestal
they had built from your stolen peace.
Their devotion rotted
into dominion.
Their longing decayed
into supremacy.
And madness—
well, madness sprouted petals
in their mind
so vivid they mistook them for truth.
---
VI. The Final Turning
By then,
you were no longer running from a person
but from a myth
that had taken your shape
in their mind.
A myth they worshiped.
A myth they wanted to own.
A myth they would break the world for
if the world dared to contradict them.
They stood at your threshold,
not knocking
but declaring—
as though your doorway
were a border to invade,
as though your life
were land to conquer.
And in their voice
was the tremor
of someone who had mistaken obsession
for truth,
delusion for devotion,
and persistence
for the right
to unravel another human soul.
Their shadow stretched across you,
long and hungry.
Their eyes gleamed
like pits where reason had drowned.
They whispered your name
not as a plea
but as a verdict.
And in that moment,
you saw the truth:
Some monsters are not born violent.
Some monsters are born persistent—
and persistence, rotted through,
becomes a crown
on a tyrant
who thinks they deserve
what they are forbidden to touch.
THE WITNESS WHO HAS SEEN TOO MUCH
I. The Familiar Stench of Persistence
It always begins the same.
A smile stretched too wide,
a gaze that lingers like mildew in the corners,
a presence that pretends to be gentle
while already calculating the cost
of your eventual collapse.
I can smell it on them—
that rancid mix of entitlement and need,
the kind that gnaws through boundaries
like a rat in the walls.
They call it affection.
They call it interest.
They call it fate.
I call it what it is:
a slow-moving infection
trying to make its home in someone else’s life.
I watch them orbit their chosen target,
helplessly certain they deserve
what they have not been given.
And I feel the old ache,
the old disgust,
the old tired knowledge:
I’ve seen this before.
II. The No They Cannot Hear
The target always says no at first.
Firm.
Clear.
Honest.
Hopeful.
Because they believe—
naively—
that human beings know how to hear that word.
But persistence is a predator
that feeds on polite refusals.
Every boundary becomes an invitation
if the stalker wants it badly enough.
They return.
They insist.
They twist every silence
into a secret yes,
every avoidance
into an accidental promise.
And I stand on the sidelines,
watching the pressure mount,
watching the oxygen disappear
from the victim’s lungs
as the walls close in.
And I think,
Here we go again.
III. The Collapse I Cannot Respect
It always ends the same way.
Not with love.
Not with real consent.
Not with clarity.
It ends
with exhaustion.
“You know what, fine,”
they say at last,
a tremor buried beneath their voice.
“Maybe I judged too harshly. Maybe they’re not that bad.
Maybe I should give them a chance.”
But I’ve seen that look—
it is not hope.
It is surrender.
It is someone choosing
the easier cage.
And every time it happens,
a part of me curls in disgust.
Not at them—
rarely at them—
but at the ritual,
the cycle,
the sickness I’ve watched
devour people I respect
until they become unrecognizable.
“How can you let them back in?”
I want to ask.
“How can you pretend this is normal?
How can you act like this was your choice?”
But I say nothing.
Because I’ve been there.
Because I know how pressure feels
when applied with a smile
sharp enough to bleed you in places
no one else sees.
IV. The Disgust, the Pity, the Distance
What disgusts me most
is not the stalker.
They are predictable,
pitiful,
a broken machine
that only knows one trick.
What disgusts me
is watching people fold their boundaries
like cheap paper—
not because they want to,
but because they’re tired.
Because resistance feels like
a battle they cannot win.
Because being cornered
starts to feel like being chosen
if you’re starved for enough warmth.
And then they let the abuser stay.
In their life.
In their home.
In their bed.
In their mind.
They normalize it.
They call it “complicated,”
or “messy,”
or “not that bad.”
And I lose a sliver of respect—
not because they’re weak,
but because I know
what this permission breeds.
I know how allowing rot
invites termites.
I know how an abuser, once welcomed,
will always return for more.
And it hurts to watch someone
I care about
choose slow poison over confrontation.
Again.
Again.
Again.
V. The Veteran’s Weariness
I’ve lived through this
too many times.
I’ve seen the orbit,
felt the pressure,
watched the cracks form
under the weight of someone else’s obsession.
I’ve clawed my way out
of that trap more than once—
and I’ve vowed never
to let it take me again.
So now I stand at a distance
from those who allow it.
Even those I love.
Even those I once admired.
Because I cannot watch
another friend
unknowingly train their abuser
to keep abusing.
I cannot watch another person
sell their peace
for a counterfeit affection
wrapped in coercion.
And when they say,
“You’re being harsh,”
or
“You don’t understand,”
I laugh.
A bitter, ancient sound.
I understand too well.
That’s why I keep my distance.
That’s why I speak less,
judge more quietly,
and step back
when they step toward the flame.
VI. The Final Revelations
In the end,
I know I cannot save them.
I cannot shield them
from the hunger of someone
who refuses to hear “no.”
I cannot fight a battle
they have chosen to surrender.
All I can do
is stand firm in my clarity:
Pressure is not love.
Persistence is not virtue.
And giving in
to stop the noise
is not consent
—it is self-erasure.
I’ve lived through enough of it
to cherish my boundaries
like sacred bone.
I’ve endured enough
to recognize the infection
in every smile
that lingers too long.
And I refuse—
absolutely refuse—
to let the entitled,
the spoiled,
the manipulative,
the delusional,
ever again mistake my survival
for surrender.
Let others cave if they must.
Let others keep the abuser
in their lives
and call it forgiveness
or tolerance
or “something complicated.”
But I am done.
Done with the cycles.
Done with the rot.
Done with watching people
drown themselves
in someone else’s obsession.
I see the pattern.
I name it.
I step away.
I will never let someone
claim me
through pressure
and call it love.
THE DISMANTLING
I. Their Return
Of course they came back.
They always do.
A pattern as old as rot,
as predictable as mildew
growing in the dark corners
of people who mistake longing
for entitlement.
They showed up wearing
their favorite lie—
a face softened by false remorse,
eyes polished to an apologetic shine,
mouth shaped into the mimicry
of a human who feels consequence.
They thought that was enough.
They thought a little rehearsed sorrow
could undo the memory
of their claws.
I watched them approach
from miles away—
long before they dared
step into my shadow.
A familiar silhouette,
a returning sickness.
I did not flinch.
I’ve learned too much.
II. Their Script
They began the same way
they always begin:
with gentleness
that sounds like velvet
but scratches like wool.
“I’ve been thinking about you.”
“I didn’t mean to push.”
“I just care so much.”
“You misunderstand my heart.”
Their voice trembled
in all the performative places.
A masterclass in manipulation—
except I’d already graduated
from that school.
Twice.
Part of me almost admired
how tightly they clung
to their little fantasy.
But admiration withers
when aimed at delusion.
And theirs was rotting.
III. The Unmoving Wall
They waited for me
to soften.
To pity.
To fold.
To cave the way
so many others had.
But their persistence
met something unexpected:
a stillness stronger than force.
I didn’t argue.
I didn’t explain.
I didn’t justify.
I didn’t soothe their ego
or tend to their fragile dream of ownership.
I simply said:
“No.”
A word sharper than a blade.
A word they had never learned
to fear
until now.
They blinked at me,
bewildered—
as if the world itself
had malfunctioned.
IV. Their Crumbling
The cracks showed quickly.
Entitlement doesn’t erode gracefully.
It ruptures.
It spits.
It tangles itself in tantrums
and calls it passion.
Their smile wilted.
Their voice dropped its sweetness.
The hunger beneath
peeled through.
They demanded reasons.
Then they demanded softness.
Then they demanded
a second chance.
Demand, demand, demand—
as if repetition
could carve yes
from granite.
But I had nothing left
they could feed on.
No guilt.
No fear.
No nostalgia.
Only a steady,
unyielding,
final clarity.
And clarity
is poison
to those who rely on confusion.
V. The Dismantling
When they tried to step closer,
I didn’t move back.
I didn’t move at all.
Stillness can be
the loudest refusal.
And then I spoke—
not cruelly,
but truthfully.
Truth sharpens itself
on years of witnessing.
“You didn’t love me.
You wanted control.
You didn’t respect me.
You resented my boundaries.
You didn’t choose me.
You hunted the version of me
that would break
for you.”
Their posture wavered.
Their certainty dimmed.
No theatrics could save them now.
I had named the thing
they’d spent years hiding from themselves.
“And you will never get that version,”
I finished.
“She doesn’t exist.
She never did.”
I watched understanding
—not acceptance,
just understanding—
wash over them
like cold water.
A shock
through the marrow.
Their delusion,
so carefully tended,
began to collapse
under its own weight.
Like a palace made of wet sand.
VI. Their Aftermath
They looked small then.
Not tragic.
Not pitiable.
Just… small.
A creature left holding
the shards of a fantasy
that never included my autonomy,
my reality,
or my humanity.
For the first time,
they saw themselves
—not as a romantic hero
nor a misunderstood lover—
but as the architect
of their own isolation.
They staggered.
They sputtered.
They reached for a script
that no longer applied.
I didn’t offer a new one.
Some endings
must be earned.
Some lessons
cannot be gentle.
And when they finally turned away,
ruptured but real,
the air itself exhaled relief.
VII. My Unbroken Silence
I did not triumph.
I did not gloat.
I did not celebrate.
I simply stepped back
into my life—
the one they tried to claim
but never truly touched.
The dismantling was not violence.
It was not vengeance.
It was nothing
more dramatic
than an unwavering boundary
held long enough
to destroy the delusion
pressing against it.
And as the echoes of their failure faded,
I felt not victory
but clarity—
clean, quiet,
unshakeable.
Persistence cannot pierce
a self that knows its worth.
Obsession cannot conquer
a mind that refuses to dim.
Entitlement cannot survive
where its hunger
is denied every meal.
In the end,
I did not defeat them.
I simply refused to be claimed.
And that refusal
is what crushed
their entire kingdom of fantasy
into dust.
THE DOCTRINE OF UNBROKEN BOUNDARIES
(A Poetic Guide to Recognizing, Resisting, and Dismantling Obsession)
I. RECOGNIZING THE INFECTION
Where Obsession Wears the Mask of Affection
It never begins with thunder.
No—
the first tremor of violation
arrives feather-light,
soft as a smile stretched one inch too far,
warm enough to pass for kindness
until you feel the heat curdling beneath it.
Watch the lingering gaze—
the kind that does not admire,
but collects,
taking inventory of your existence
as though your autonomy
were a shelf they intend to rearrange.
Listen for the praise
that stiffens into prophecy:
“You were meant for me.”
“I have chosen you.”
These are not compliments.
They are coronations spoken without your consent,
the language of someone
quietly carving your name
into the architecture of their delusion.
And heed the moment coincidence
begins to follow you like a shadow
that forgot how to detach.
When footsteps repeat too often,
when presence imitates fate,
when proximity begins to smell intentional—
you are no longer the passerby;
you are the target.
Lesson:
Affection is gentle.
Obsession is crowded.
When warmth begins to feel like suffocation,
trust the instinct that whispers:
This is not love. This is possession rehearsing its lines.
II. COUNTERING THE DELUSION
Where Clarity Becomes Shield and Sword
The obsessed thrive on negotiation,
on the endless softening of your “no,”
on the exhaustion of your explanations
until your boundaries sag like overused gates.
Do not feed them confusion.
Do not feed them mercy.
Do not feed them the kindness
they will inevitably weaponize
against the quiet of your spirit.
Hold still.
Stillness is the abyss
in which their fantasies choke.
Do not debate, justify, or soothe.
Your silence is not invitation—
if held with clarity,
it becomes a mirror
forcing them to see the nonsense
they have baptized as destiny.
And when you speak,
let your “No” be a monolith,
a cold, unyielding truth
that offers no foothold for reinterpretation—
a wall, not a doorway.
A period, not a comma.
Refuse the myth they crafted of you.
Their heartbreak is not yours to tend.
Their hunger is not yours to fill.
You are not the character
they tried to script into existence.
Lesson:
To give in simply to silence the noise
is not peace—
it is self-erasure.
Your autonomy is bone:
precious, irreplaceable,
and unbreakable when protected.
III. AFFIRMING THE DISMANTLING
Where You Reclaim the Crown They Tried to Forge for You
The final movement is not a battle.
It is a naming.
Truth, spoken clearly,
is the solvent that strips their fantasy bare.
Say it plainly:
“You did not love me. You wanted control.”
“You hunted the version of me that would break.”
“You carved a throne from my silence
and crowned yourself with what you imagined.”
These words do not wound.
They illuminate.
They force the obsessive to see
their reflection without romance—
a shadow with teeth,
a hunger pretending to be devotion.
When they stagger,
do not reach to steady them.
Let the consequences of their own desire
become the lesson they long postponed.
Their collapse is not your burden.
Their confusion is not your assignment.
You owe them no story
in which they emerge redeemed.
Stand firm.
Watch the kingdom they built of fantasy
crumble into dust
against the simple fact
that you are not theirs.
Never were.
Never will be.
And then—
step back into your life,
untouched where they believed
they had already claimed you.
Your refusal was always
the most powerful truth in the room.
Final Revelation:
Pressure is never love.
Desire is never ownership.
Obsession is a throne
that collapses under its own weight—
and your unbroken boundary
is the gravity that brings it down.