He is not a villain.
He is ambition in motion,
goal after goal,
hands steady on the wheel of his life.
A man carved from drive,
the kind others look at
and say—he will make it.

I see the steel in him,
the certainty,
the quiet confidence of someone
who knows what he wants.
And I love that man.
I admire him.
I chose him.

But behind the steel,
there are walls.
Walls made of pride so high
even sunlight struggles to climb over.
Walls built from a fear
that the world is full of knives,
and every hand—
even mine—
could one day hold one.

He says nobody is true.
And so, he holds everyone
at arm’s length,
even as he pulls me close.
It is a strange kind of love—
where I am held in his arms
but kept just outside his heart’s gate.

I tell him,
I am not here to stab,
I am here to stay.
But his walls don’t listen.
They have heard too many promises
before mine.

So I stand in front of those walls,
loving both the man and the fortress—
hoping one day,
he will believe
that I am not here to tear him down,
but to live
inside the home of his trust.