I think I have always been attracted to the men with dead eyes because I have so much life in me.  Men like that are so empty and dead inside that I always felt like my light was a balance to their flatness. It was always easier for me to be “loved” by monsters because they never actually required anything from me, no real vulnerability, no real depth.  Easier to make them believe I was sharing the dark parts of myself or past when they were only getting the surface level stories, the news they could use against me in an argument that wouldn’t bother me.  It was like a dance; I let them believe that I believed who they said they were, and they got to pretend like they knew how to love.  

The problem with men like that is their masks always slip in little ways and you have the choice over and over whether to run or stay.  I always stay until I am so disgusted that the thought of even looking at them makes me physically ill. (A process I wish I could speed run).  You see the lies; the persona they have built out of ideas and thoughts stolen from others.  You know they will never fully understand any of what they preach because their brains are not actually wired for empathy and compassion, yet the words are so pretty you like to listen anyway. You see how they perform, and you either ride it out or set it on fire.   

I choose arson often.  Gone is the girl that bends and weeps for men that cannot withstand the weight of their own minds and how truly broken they are.  I will not apologize for standing up for myself in situations that require violence and rage.  I will never let a man stand over me and ask what is wrong with me when they are the one that has beaten me so badly that I cannot stand up.   

And the next time I see the dead eyes I will look away.