You Ain’t HIM
Subject: You Ain’t HIM
From: Creed Saint
The Exception to Her Rule
Some women don’t bend for beauty.
They don’t chase charm.
They don’t care how thick your wallet is or how fine your jawline cuts across the candlelight.
They’ve already survived men like that.
They’ve written rules in the aftermath, etched boundaries in their skin like commandments from heartbreak.
“No late-night calls.”
“No fast love.”
“No soft spots for deep voices and daydreams.”
But every now and then, the world plays its favorite trick
and sends her a motherfucker she can’t categorize but knows he’s trouble.
A man who doesn’t knock at her door,
he waits at the gate of her soul.
The Anatomy of the Exception
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t chase. Doesn’t beg for access.
He studies her rhythm and steps into it like he’s heard her song before in a dream he never wanted to wake from.
He doesn’t test her boundaries to break them.
He honors them to understand them.
And in doing so, she begins to question the walls she built.
He sees her not just the version she curates, but the one she tucks away when the world gets too loud.
And that’s where it starts.
The unraveling. The softening. The surrender. Oh, that sweet sinful surrender.
The Sacred Risk
She breaks her rules in silence.
She lets him stay the night.
She lets her voice tremble in front of him.
She lets her body remember how to trust,
and her soul remember how to want.
And with every rule she bends, she isn’t losing herself.
She’s remembering herself.
The version of her untouched by betrayal.
Untouched by disappointment.
Untouched by games.
He doesn’t “make” her do anything.
He simply shows her a mirror she’s never seen before
one that reflects power in her vulnerability
and glory in her desire.
My Confession
I met a woman like that once.
She told me her rules.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t fight them.
I just stayed… present.
I didn’t try to get inside.
I waited for her to invite me in.
And when she did?
She didn’t just open a door. She opened a whole damn cathedral.
She let me see the parts of her she thought were broken.
And all I did was tell her the truth:
“You’re not broken. You’re just divine in places the world doesn’t know how to worship. Even the devil knows this.”
Of course I said the last part with a smirk.
You’ll never know who you’ll scare off being slick
She let me stay. Again. And again.
The rules faded. The fire didn’t.
And even now, years later
when the taste of her name no longer lingers on my tongue,
I remember what it meant to be the exception.
The Lesson
If a woman breaks her rules for you
not just the physical ones, but the ones carved into her memory
tread with reverence.
Because she’s not surrendering to you.
She’s surrendering to the feeling you bring.
And if you handle that carelessly?
You won’t just lose her.
You’ll lose the part of her she was brave enough to share.
The Final Word
She’s not being reckless.
She’s rewriting her story with you as the pen.
Don’t drop the ink, except in the places she wants it.
—Creed Saint
Atlanta, GA
The Sessions: The Redline
Thunder could be heard in the distance. It was a cold Memphis midnight and drafts were spread across the table. Rosa Mae just read Chapter 9 and she wasn’t smiling. A heated debate over a controversial chapter in one of my upcoming books began.
“You serious with this? You really just gonna end the chapter with her calling herself ‘his possession’?” She locked eyes with me and slapped the manuscript. “This shit right here? This’ll split your audience down the damn middle,” she continued.
I leaned forward with a half-smile. “And? That’s the point.” I paused. “Sometimes submission is power. Sometimes bein’ claimed is chosen. And bein’ chosen is the goal. Besides, I’m not here to write what’s safe. I’m here to write the truth.”
Zeke leaned back with his arms crossed. “He ain’t wrong, but the framing? Something’s kinda off. Right now it reads like he owns her. But bruh, you want readers to feel tension, not write think pieces about toxic shit you ain’t mean.”
Cellie sat across from me unfazed. She took a sip of wine and remained still.
“What’s goin in that noggin of yours, love?” I asked.
“From a PR standpoint? Controversy sells if…if the writing can hold it. You’re givin’ ‘em ammo, not art.” She leaned in.
“Meaning?” I furrowed my brow.
“Meaning that it’s not seductive enough. It’ll give the “sistahood” as some of y’all toxic motherfuckers call it, ammo to fuck you up before you even get off the porch. Make it intentional or rewrite it like a line you’d whisper in someone’s ear, not some shit they’d screenshot to cancel you.”
I hated to admit it but she was right. I grit my teeth and agreed. “Aight, alight. Let me rework it. Same heat. Same danger. But I’ll make it clear that she chose the fire, not me.”
“You walkin’ a thin line, Creed. But if anyone can dance on it barefoot and leave the crowd breathless, its you,” Rosa Mae said softly buy firmly.
I went back to what I did best, making words sing and sting.
The Origin
The first time I kissed someone, it was with a metaphor.
The first time I fought back, it was with a story.
They tried to clean me up.
Put him in ties and boxes.
Told me to write nice things for nice people.
But I didn’t come here to be nice.
I came to make your soul itch.
I spent years hiding in plain sight
working jobs that dimmed my flame,
biting my tongue until it bled ink,
swallowing fire just to keep the peace.
Then one day, I snapped.
Not with a shout.
Not with a fist.
With a pen.
With a truth.
With a voice that cracked open the silence like thunder through stained glass.
Since then, I’ve written like a man possessed.
By ghosts. By lust. By purpose.
I’ve turned pain into poetry.
Rage into rhythm.
And made art out of every scar I refused to hide.
I’m not here to fit in.
I’m here to stand out.
To stir you up.
To make you feel something dangerous.
I arrived too much.
And the world’s been adjusting to my volume ever since.
– Creed Saint
Atlanta, GA.