Lies Wrapped in Love
She smiles, and you believe.
She whispers, and you disarm.
Her affection is not affection,
but a weapon—
a stratagem dressed in silk.
Napoleon bent kingdoms to his will,
but could not bend Josephine.
Why?
Because he needed her more than she ever needed him.
The Emperor of Europe,
writing letters of desperate longing
while she gave herself to lesser men in Paris.
The conqueror of nations,
reduced to a supplicant,
a beggar at the altar of false love.
And you, men,
you repeat his error.
You kneel,
you beg for crumbs of attention
from women who do not need you,
who do not hunger for you,
but for the danger you cannot give.
A monster does not beg.
The monster does not kneel.
He is hungry, yes,
but not for her.
He hungers for conquest,
for power,
for the pursuit of destiny.
He devours the world,
not illusions spun from lies.
Understand this:
Love is the great deception,
the trick by which the species survives.
It seduces men into weakness,
into surrender.
And in this war,
the civilized man always loses.
For what does woman truly seek?
Not kindness, not predictability, not reason—
but danger,
the edge of chaos,
the taste of unpredictability.
Yet you, civilized men,
you offer her safety,
routine,
obedience—
and then lament when she betrays you.
You call it love.
I call it war.
And in war, only the ruthless endure.
Copyright © Chanda Katonga | Year Posted 2025
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