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