You don't have access to me anymore

I see you.

Not the version you sell —

the one underneath the posture.

The hunger dressed up as confidence.

The silence you fill with yourself.

You walk in like attention is currency

and every woman owes you interest.

Like your presence is a favor.

Like volume is depth.

It isn’t.

You don’t want intimacy.

You want reflection.

A woman polished enough

to make you look whole

without asking you to be.

You flirt with connection

until it requires consistency.

You vanish when it costs you effort

and call that freedom.

I used to mistake that absence for mystery.

I don’t anymore.

You don’t scare me.

You don’t impress me.

You repeat.

Same charm.

Same deflection.

Same fragile ego

wrapped in borrowed confidence.

You don’t take women —

you borrow them.

You don’t love —

you consume.

And I am no longer available

to be digested.

This isn’t anger.

Anger still gives energy.

This is recognition.

I won’t dance with you.

Not slow.

Not once.

Not ever again.

I don’t soften to be chosen.

I don’t shrink to be kept.

I don’t perform patience

for men allergic to accountability.

You don’t get my body

because you’re charming.

You don’t get my time

because you’re loud.

You don’t get my spirit

because you want it.

Access is earned.

And you never paid the cost.

So keep the mirror.

Keep the audience.

Keep the endless loop

of women almost loving you.

I’m not leaving hurt.

I’m leaving clear.

I see you.

And that’s exactly why

you don’t get me.