Toxic Persistence

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.