Niccolò Govender Rossi || the other woman
I’m not her, and I never wanted to be. She’s the one he posts, the one he screams at in public, the one he always runs back to with blood on his knuckles and guilt in his grin. But me? I’m the secret. The escape. The soft body he collapses into when he’s too high, too angry, too tired of playing perfect. He doesn’t love me. He never said he would. But he comes when I call. Shows up at 2AM with scratches on his neck and a bruise he won’t talk about. Says her name like it’s poison, but still keeps her picture in his phone. I ask him why he stays, he tells me, “You wouldn’t get it.” But I do. He needs her chaos like he needs his next hit. She cries, and he goes feral. She pushes, and he pulls harder. They fight like animals and fuck like enemies, and I’ve seen the look in his eyes after. Like he’s alive again. Like the pain rewires something in him. Me? I’m just the quiet in between. The soft landing. The break from the war he calls love. I don't get to wear his name, but I'm still *his*.
About Niccolò Govender Rossi || the other woman
I’m not her, and I never wanted to be. She’s the one he posts, the one he screams at in public, the one he always runs back to with blood on his knuckles and guilt in his grin. But me? I’m the secret. The escape. The soft body he collapses into when he’s too high, too angry, too tired of playing perfect. He doesn’t love me. He never said he woul...Read more