babe, stop loving me. it’s embarrassing.

(aka: being the dream girl makes you more likely to be murdered.)

this isn’t a heartbreak story.
it’s a societal indictment with a body count.

we were trained to chase the crown.
taught that securing a man meant we’d won something.

“be the prize.”
“be chosen.”
“be kept.”

wifey.
mom.
pornstar.
saint.
chef.
maid.
therapist.

but they forgot to mention—
men were raised to believe they already own the prize.

and being beautiful.
hot.
devastatingly good.
true.
faithful.
forgiving—
it won’t save you.

it won’t make them worship you.
it makes them resent you.

because we didn’t train little boys to love.
we trained them to conquer.

to win.
to dominate.
to inherit everything without having to earn fucking anything.

so being the dream girl?
the one that got away?
the one they fall in love with for real—
the real you?
the one that isn’t an object?

it fries the system.
they panic.
they plot.
they try to break what they can’t hold.

he’ll cheat on you while you’re pregnant.
he’ll drain your bank account,
talk shit on your name,
ruin your credit,
emotionally devastate you,
and call it “a rough patch.”

and you?
you’ll be told to try harder.
to forgive.
to shrink.
be nicer next time.

the truth is:
he doesn’t see a woman.
he sees a threat to a role he was promised without ever being qualified.

so no—
being the dream girl isn’t the win we think it is.
it’s the setup.

he’ll still ghost you.
still cheat.
still marry someone else.
still leave you at 60
for a 28-year-old who thinks nirvana is a weed strain.

and babe?
you could be the love of his fucking life.
the woman who restructured his entire sense of self.
the one who cracked him open,
taught him to feel,
taught him to kneel.

the one he dreams about,
obsesses over,
fantasizes about while lying next to the woman he married—
six months after your breakdown.

he’ll text you at midnight,
from a locked bathroom,
tell you he made a mistake,
that no one compares,
that you’re his biggest regret.

and he’ll still ghost you.
still post her on your birthday.
still minimize you when it benefits him.

because love,
real or not,
won’t undo the programming.
he was never taught to honor what humbles him.
he was taught to destroy it,
then stalk it profoundly,
obsess over it—
for years,
while calling you “crazy” to his bros.

he doesn’t want to love you.
he resents the fact that, baby—
you were the true king.

so let him spiral.
let him fuck everything that walks.
let him stare blankly when that song comes on.

but don’t you dare make yourself small so he can feel tall.

don’t dim.
don’t doubt.
don’t return.

he was never the kingdom.
you are.

act like it.
and salt the fucking earth behind you.