She don’t crave peace, she needs the collapse,
A rose in a funeral grasp, wrapped in relapse,
Chaos addict if you stable, she shatters that axis,
Tests your soul like a lab rat wrapped in black ashes.
She don’t hate you, that ain’t the root of her wrath,
It’s deeper her trauma got teeth and a mask,
Unconscious hunger for destruction, a cast
Of ancestral pain sewn tight in her past.
You confident? She’ll mirror the void,
Till your pride’s eroded, erasing your voice.
Think it’s love? Nah it’s a test of poise.
Every kiss a riddle. Every smile a ploy.
Not malicious but instinctive sabotage,
Like Persephone bleeding on Hades’ garage,
A goddess with migraines when you on the charge,
And euphoria when you crash in the fog.
She ain’t lying when she says “I don’t know why”,
That’s not an excuse it’s a soul’s disguise.
Her shadow moves like a dream that cries,
And you’re caught in a loop that her demon drives.

This is martyr’s trap, and the blood runs deep,
Where her pain plants seeds in the words she speaks.
She don’t need a blade her silence cuts clean,
While you drown in the need to protect her peace.
The sweeter the scent, the darker the brew,
Perfect wives with a pitchfork’s truth.
This is ancient coded before language grew,
Her shadow bleeds, and it’s bleeding through you.

Jung’s notes overflow with the docile divine,
Smiling wives with a sabotage spine.
Didn’t cheat, didn’t yell, didn’t cross the line—
They collapsed in your arms right before you’d shine.
Headaches when you needed to rise,
Tears when your spine aligned with the skies,
Depression that vanished when your mission died,
She ain’t the storm she’s the tide that hides.
Not evil just primal defense mechanisms,
Burns etched in her DNA’s catechism.
A million years of strategic submission,
Mating with warlords for male attrition.
When she says, “I’m broken,” yo, she ain’t fake,
Her subconscious scripts the moves she makes.
You’re not her lover you’re a test of fate,
And she’s the priestess that opens the gates.
You think you chase her for love? Nah
It’s your hunger for chaos in the shape of a scar.
You’re as sick as the sins that seduced your heart,
Playing savior in a play where you fall apart.
Her helplessness is a loaded hex,
She folds in your arms when you take your next step.
She needs you heroic, then feeds you regret,
You bleed for her peace and die in that debt.

This is martyr’s trap, and the blood runs deep,
Where her pain plants seeds in the words she speaks.
She don’t need a blade her silence cuts clean,
While you drown in the need to protect her peace.
The sweeter the scent, the darker the brew,
Perfect wives with a pitchfork’s truth.
This is ancient coded before language grew,
Her shadow bleeds, and it’s bleeding through you.

But Jung found a weapon worse than her shade
A terror so raw it could shift her blade.
Not anger. Not love. Not games you played
But the sovereign king that can’t be swayed.
Individuated. Whole. Unshaken.
A man with a spine through the world’s temptation.
Not moved by guilt, nor seduced by need,
He sees her chaos and lets her bleed.
Not cruel he’s clear. He won’t be baited,
She weeps, but his throne stays consecrated.
She spirals? He don’t rescue the fall,
He watches her burn ‘til she breaks that wall.
That’s the cure not coddling, not fixing,
But owning the beast in your soul’s own mission.
Her demon don’t die it retreats in submission,
When you hold your frame like a crucifix risen.
This was martyr’s trap, now the mirror’s cracked,
She bled her ghost but you ain’t react.
Now her chaos kneels, ‘cause you ain’t collapse
And her shadow bows to the one who lasts.
She’ll test you still, but respect is earned,
Not by saving her but letting her burn.
The sweetest woman holds death in turn,
And if you flinch you’ll never return.

“Now you know…
She didn’t want a savior.
She wanted to know if you could survive her.
And if you can…
She will kneel.
Not to obey…
But because you became the only thing her shadow fears.”

Martyrs trap (the truth about female psychology)

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