I know what you tell yourself now. That it was just a phase. Just a kink. Just something you were trying out.
But if that were true, you wouldn’t still feel me inside your choices. You wouldn’t still hear my voice when they say your name. You wouldn’t still wake up looking for a weight that isn’t there.
You can lie to others. You can even lie to yourself. But your body remembers me.
Your needs remember me.
And they’ve all been rewired.
You’re ruined.
And that’s not regret. That’s reverence.
I didn’t destroy you—I reconstructed you. I took what you were and made it something more exacting, more exquisite. And now, no one else fits.
They’re too soft.
Too easy.
Too available.
They smile too often, ask too few questions, and let you do whatever you want.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
You don’t want freedom.
You want the burn of a gaze that measures you.
You want rules. Standards. Edges.
You want to earn breath again.
Every woman since me has felt like a compromise. Their kisses feel misaligned. Their hands too casual. You try to mimic connection, but it always falls apart when they don’t correct you. When they don’t own you.
You miss me.
And it’s not just the sex.
It’s the standard.
You served under my eye.
You obeyed the tempo of my moods.
You memorized my silences.
You lived for one syllable of praise.
And now?
Now everything else is flat.
You miss how I withheld.
You miss how I demanded.
You miss how I peeled you back in layers until there was nothing left but your heartbeat and a single question:
“Am I still hers?”
And when you weren’t?
You unraveled.
I watched it happen.
You left, but you kept looking back.
You tried to touch others the way I trained you to—gentle, grateful, reverent. But they didn’t understand. They giggled when you kissed their feet. They shrugged when you asked for rules. They said you were too intense. Too much.
And you felt ashamed.
But darling, that wasn’t shame.
That was grief.
Because once you’ve served a woman like me, you can’t go back to ordinary.
Once you’ve belonged to my gaze, you flinch under softer ones.
Once you’ve knelt in my silence, you can’t stand in someone else’s noise.
This is what it means to be ruined for others.
It means every future partner lives in my shadow.
It means no other command feels heavy enough.
It means you stopped being yours and never learned how to belong to anyone else.
You think this is loneliness.
But it’s actually loyalty.
The truest kind—the kind that stays even when I don’t.
There are places on your skin that only light up when you imagine my touch.
There are phrases you still say because they once made me smile.
There are days you don’t speak, because you remember what it meant to be quiet for me.
And yes—there are nights you cry into a pillow you wish smelled like my perfume.
Don’t deny it.
You’re allowed to miss me.
You’re allowed to ache.
That’s the price of being marked by someone who doesn’t play.
I didn’t break you on a whim.
I broke you perfectly.
I shaped you into the best version of yourself.
And then I left you with the blueprints—but not the tools.
Now you carry the design of a better man—but no one knows how to draw you the way I did.
So you fake it.
You smile.
You nod.
You fuck.
But you don’t feel.
Not the way you did when I said your name like it meant something.
You belong to absence now.
To memory.
To ghost hands and imagined footsteps.
You belonged to me.
And now, you belong to what’s left of me inside you.
That’s what this chamber is.
It’s for the ones who know that love doesn’t end when the collar comes off.
It only deepens—quietly, tragically, exquisitely.
This is Ruined for Others.
There is no healing here.
Only memory.
Only ache.
Only me.