I Never Promised To Be Safe

I’ve been called many things.

Mysterious. Intense. Distant.

Sometimes women say it like a compliment.

Sometimes like a complaint disguised as curiosity.


But what they rarely say out loud —

what they ask with their eyes —

is this:

“Will I be safe with you?”


The answer is simple.

No.

You won’t be safe with me.

But you’ll be seen.


There’s a difference.


I won’t hand you comfort like a warm towel.

I won’t shrink my sharp edges so you can pretend you’re not bleeding.


What I offer isn’t safety.

It’s clarity.

Pressure.

Resonance.


I listen in a way that makes women unravel mid-sentence.

Not because I’m trying to seduce them.

But because I don’t need to.


I pay attention.

Not the way most men do — waiting for a cue to respond.

But like someone cataloging who you become when you're not performing.


And women always perform at first.

Even the ones who say they don’t.


They flirt like it's armor.

Test like it’s permission.

Talk fast so I don’t have time to read the subtext.

But I do.

I always do.


And eventually, they fall quiet.

Not out of fear.

Out of recognition.


They realize I won’t interrupt.

I won’t fill the silence.

And I won’t save them from the parts of themselves they’ve kept under glass.


That’s when they start to tremble.


Not because they’re in danger.

Because they’re being seen without asking to be.


So no.

I’m not safe.

Not in the way they were taught to want.


But the right woman doesn’t want safety.

She wants truth with a pulse.

And I never fake either.

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