Ode to the Toxic Man
To the man who believes he is a savior.
The man who thinks his mere presence can rescue women from themselves.
Who wears confidence like armor and speaks in promises wrapped in certainty.
The man who has convinced himself—
and so easily convinces others—
that he knows what women need,
that he alone can be everything they have ever wanted.
At first, it is intoxicating.
The unwavering belief in his own importance is a spell,
a deception so deep that even he does not know it’s a lie.
And so, we hand over our hearts.
Our softness.
Our care.
Our light.
Because we have been taught that men are strong,
that we are meant to be led,
that surrender is love.
But this man does not cherish what is given.
He does not nourish it,
does not return it.
He hoards.
He consumes.
He takes and takes, mistaking devotion for fuel,
mistaking love for something he is entitled to.
And when the light in us dims,
when we are emptied,
when we are left as a shell of the women we once were—
he does not see the destruction in his wake.
For he is already searching for the next soul to save.
But here’s what he never expected:
That we would wake up.
That we would take back what was stolen.
That we would rise again—stronger, wiser, untouchable.
And to the woman reading this who is still trapped in his illusion:
You do not need saving.
You were never weak.
Your light is still yours, waiting for you to reclaim it.
Let today be the day you begin to take it back.
