There’s a place inside me where control is the only language I speak. Even when I’m broken, when the weight of everything threatens to crush me, that part of me doesn’t give up. It stands tall, fierce, unyielding. Because being dominant isn’t just about power—it’s about survival.
I’m lost. Not because I’m weak, but because I’m running out of patience for a world that demands logic when my heart feels like chaos. I sit quietly now—not hunting, not running. Just waiting. Waiting for something I can’t name but know I need.
There are moments—fleeting glimmers—when hope surfaces. Maybe in laughter with her, a touch, a look that says, we’re still here. But those moments fade fast, replaced by cold stiffness and the weight of nothingness. It’s a dance I’ve learned well—how to appear whole while feeling fractured.
R’s memory is tattooed on my skin and etched deep in my mind. Every line, every image a reminder of a love that was real and fierce. It’s a ghost that lingers—not as a wall I slam into, but as a shadow that follows, sometimes close, sometimes distant.
The chains and handcuffs I use to command and control—iron symbols of dominance—are the same ones that mentally constrict me. They bind my thoughts, trap my fears, and lock me in a prison of my own making. The struggle between freedom and captivity is a fight I wage every day, a silent war within that no one sees.
I manage by knowing life is life. Nothing is given. Nothing is free. Everything is transactional. Control what I can, endure what I must. This is my truth.
Even in vulnerability, the dominant side of me refuses to break completely. It’s the least seen part of myself—the part that carries my fears, my regrets, my pain—but also the part that will never surrender.
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