I don’t want a man.

  Not because I can’t love —

  but because I know exactly what I’ve done with that power.

  I’ve played with hearts just to see what sound they made

  when tapped in the right place.

  I’ve tested limits out of boredom,

  pushed buttons because I wanted to see what lit up.

  Not cruel — just curious.

  Not evil — just aware of the leverage softness gives you.

  I’ve watched a man unravel

  under a look I didn’t mean,

  a compliment I tossed aside,

  a silence I held too long.

  And part of me catalogued it —

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  how influence works,

  how desire bends,

  how easy it is to get inside someone’s head

  when they want you more than you want them.

  I don’t want a man

  because I don’t want to be measured

  by the wreckage of the versions of me

  that were experimenting, surviving, learning.

  Because if I can twist someone without trying,

  what happens when I’m actually tired, hurt, or unguarded?

  I stay alone

  not out of fear of love,

  but fear of the way I’ve learned to navigate it.

  I know the shadows I cast.

  I know the tricks I never meant to master.

  I don’t want a man

  until I learn how to hold power

  without playing with it.

  Until I can trust myself

  as much as someone else would trust me.

  Because the truth is —

  I could love someone deeply.

  I just don’t want to break someone

  accidentally.