yes, another brief study on the terminal male
synthepathic traumavore
he’s got a mouth full of virtue
and a spine made of fucking jelly
the kind of worm who weeps when called a cunt
then says i’m just trying to be nice
he’s not
he’s a predator with a panic disorder
a leech with a library card
reads feminist theory
like porn for the polite
hoping it’ll make her come by consent
he’s not in love
he’s in escrow
every coffee he buys
every tear he catches
every late-night vent session he journals about
it’s all just emotional investment
he expects to cash in
the moment she breaks
he waits
like a fucking vulture
in a cardigan
circling her suffering
with sympathy teeth
and a therapist’s tone
he doesn’t want to help
he wants her hollowed out
just enough
to mistake him for safety
he is the soft landing
with sharp edges
the nice guy who says
i would never treat you like that
but only because
he’s never had the chance
he’s not patient
he’s a coward
a sugarcoated opportunist
hiding behind trauma speak
and good lighting
he doesn’t flirt
he performs empathy
doesn’t ask
just interprets
and every you okay
is just a you ready yet
in sheep’s clothing
and when she still doesn’t choose him
when she gets up off the floor
and loves someone
who didn’t beg for it
he’ll call her cruel
he’ll call her blind
he’ll call her everything
but free
he was never the white knight
just a fucking wet rag
waiting for the blood to hit the floor
a janitor with a god complex
scrubbing her blood like it’s foreplay
calling the stains home
A predator with a panic disorder is a great line