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She does not love you.
She loves what you give her—
And when that gift fades, so too does her affection.
The modern man, deluded by poets and preachers,
Believes that love is salvation.
No—
Love is slavery wrapped in perfume.

She smiles when you provide,
Cries when you delay,
Withholds warmth to bend your spine.
And you—
Grateful for her cold embrace—
Call it passion.
You sign your soul away, and call it intimacy.

Her “I love you” is not a covenant—
It is a receipt.
A thank you for value rendered:
Protection, provision, projection.
Yet when a man of higher worth appears,
She is reborn—
Her eyes wide with false admiration,
Her voice softer, her laughter louder,
Her loyalty forgotten.

You think she is the prize.
But a prize never chooses its winner.
It is men who bleed, sweat, and shatter for a glance,
While she sits, unmoved, beneath a pedestal carved by your hands.

When did love become a negotiation?
When did femininity learn to trade hearts for homes,
Affection for advantage?
She does not want your love—
She wants your weakness.
So she may rule over it in silence.

Divorce is not the failure of love—
It is the victory of strategy.
He who is weak loses her,
He who conquers keeps her trembling.

Do not chase her.
Let her feel your absence like a kingdom without a king.
Great men are not led by women—
They are followed by them.
You are the storm she fears,
The mountain she cannot move,
The god her soul once worshipped before the fall.

So rise, man.
Cast off the illusion.
She is not the light.
She is the shadow you must walk through
To find yourself again.

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