The Siren and the Mirror

There was a woman once. Let’s call her Monica.

She didn’t break me — she showed me I was already bleeding.

The way she moved, the way she looked back while walking away — it wasn’t love. It was a mirror. One I didn’t know I was staring into until I saw what she really reflected back: the version of me that would give everything just to feel chosen.

And she knew it.

That’s what sirens do. They don’t sing because they love you. They sing because they can.

I gave her access to parts of me that weren’t even mine to give yet. Parts still under construction. I mistook her hunger for intimacy. I mistook her silence for mystery.

She wasn’t mysterious. She was empty.

And in trying to fill her, I drained myself.

But here’s the thing about collapse — it teaches you architecture.

I rebuilt from the rubble she left behind. Brick by brick, rep by rep, truth by painful truth. Now, I don’t chase sirens. I don't bend for ghosts.

I became the storm they warn each other about.

And I don't need revenge. I just keep rising — stronger, louder, clearer.

They feel it.

She does too.

Because now, I’m the one singing.