They only crave what they cannot taste. They only hunger for what does not beg to be devoured. The moment you stop offering yourself as their feast, they circle your absence like starving pilgrims, desperate for one more sip of the nectar you’ll never pour again.
People are trained to prey on your longing—the soft tremor of needing to be desired, the ache for approval, the moan for validation. They smell it on you like sex. Like sweat. Like blood. But once you strip yourself of that hunger, once you tear out the root of needing to be chosen—you stop being food.
Your silence is lethal. Your detachment is a mercy. No longer a body bent into shapes for their comfort, you become an altar of your own making. They’ll call you selfish. They’ll call you heartless. There’s nothing more suffocating than hands that held you only to keep you down.
They raise you on the lie that being needed is the same as being loved. When you no longer need anyone, you become the only one they all need. Love without reverence is just hunger, and hunger will always drain you dry. Your absence becomes louder than their presence. They whisper your name when you’re not there because silence has made you a legend.
Most beg for a seat at poisoned tables. When you no longer need their touch, their approval, their lips at your ear, you become the very thing they worship in secret. They tremble, they whisper your name in their sleep, because the one who no longer kneels becomes the only one worth kneeling to. You’ve met your monsters, made them dance, and came back free of every leash.
They’ll call you ruthless when you stop explaining. Arrogant when you stop apologizing for your hungers, your fire, your divinity. But their accusations are burning on your altar. Their words feed your legend. Mystery is power. Secrecy is survival. To withhold your body, your secrets, your energy—this is sovereignty.
A world addicted to taming wildness will call you a monster when you bare your fangs instead of your throat. But it is not monstrosity they fear—it is your refusal to be owned. They want your submission as proof they still matter. But you’ve tasted your own darkness, your own lust, your own silence. You are no longer theirs to tame.
The old you—the one who apologized for existing, who begged for scraps—is gone. You buried that ghost and wear its ashes as war paint. Your indifference is not emptiness, it’s fullness. Your withdrawal is not cruelty, it’s clarity.
Now, you choose where your loyalty goes. You choose who earns your presence. That choice is your crown. That choice is sovereignty.
They will circle your silence like worshippers around a forbidden shrine. They will ache for the doors of your temple to open again. But they no longer understand: you are not waiting to be claimed. You are not starving for their presence. You are nourished in the sacred garden of your own solitude, fed by rivers no hand can touch.
Let them gossip. Let them rage. You are not theirs to own, never were. You don’t need their applause, their tables, their love offered as ransom. You are the ocean—vast, ungraspable, answering to no one.
You are not stone—you are iron. Not cruel, but sovereign. Not cold, but untouchable. You stand as proof that freedom is possible. That is what makes you dangerous. That is what makes you unforgettable.
Everybody wants you when you don’t need anyone.
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