architect dressed in costume

He burns through women like pages in a diary he never intends to reread. Never once pausing to consider the wreckage. Never once offering an apology. Only explanations, wrapped in self-pity:

“I told you I was fucked up”, “I never promised anything”, “I‘m just honest”.

But honesty without empathy is just cruelty. And damage unacknowledged becomes a weapon.

He wields his past like a shield, hurting others while hiding behind the phrase “I warned you”. But not once does he mention how he never lets go. Never allows repair. How he pulls back those who dare to leave until he is finished feeding off of them.

He emotionally abuses them—subtly, quietly, expertly. He manipulates by omission, punishes closeness with distance, confuses coldness with mystery.

And when the women cry, collapse, or finally confront him, he blames them. Turns things around, pretends the pain is self-inflicted. He disappears when the mirror becomes too clear, the view too rotten.

Because he cannot—will not—take accountability. His hair turns grey, his actions get old, and he still believes self-awareness means acknowledging that he‘s broken but doing nothing to change.

What he doesn’t know? His carefully crafted universe of illusion shatters: we talk. We compare. And the story is always the same: charm, cruelty, disappearance.

And one day, when his latest girl outgrows his fantasy, she too will walk away. And maybe then, in the echo of yet another goodbye he will look in the mirror and see: not a misunderstood poet, not a broken genius, just a coward in costume.

A sad boy who never learned how to grow up without breaking the women who held him up.

— Lux