epiphany on Nostr: There is nothing nice about the “Nice Guy/Nice Girl/Nice Energy”. It's cloaked in ...
There is nothing nice about the “Nice Guy/Nice Girl/Nice Energy”. It's cloaked in affection, but underneath is nothing but pure control, desperation, and psychic suffocation.
PSYCHIC SUFFOCATION
There is a subtle, sticky, manipulative energy that doesn’t even have a name. No bruises. No threats. No proof. Just a tension in the body. A scream your nervous system whispers while your mind tries to stay polite.
It comes cloaked in affection. Wrapped in concern. Drenched in "just checking in."
It looks like love. It sounds like care. But it feels like static wrapped in sugar.
It wants nothing and everything. It wants to sit next to you long enough that you forget what silence feels like. It wants entry without ever asking permission.
They never say it directly.
Because directness risks rejection.
And rejection confirms the wound they’re trying to avoid.
So instead, they hover. They imply. They guilt. They watch. They wait.
This is an obsession, cloaked in affection. Guilt-tripping, disguised as care. It’s "I’m worried about you" that really means "I’m worried I’m losing access to you."
It’s a slow psychic invasion that builds the illusion of connection so gradually, you don’t notice when it becomes a cage.
They want a love story, but they won’t write it with you.
They’ll try to negotiate it behind your back. Through your friends. Through your silence. Through any opening you leave unguarded.
They don’t know how to generate warmth, so they borrow yours. Leeching joy like a cracked USB cable, plugging into your frequency, hoping it’ll charge the hollow inside them.
This is psychic suffocation.
You feel it in the way your soul goes silent when they message.
In the way your body tightens before your mind can find words.
And that confusion? That’s their entry point.
They count on you being too kind to shut the door.
But this time, you saw it.
You called it by name, even if it had none.
I used to call it love.
Now I call it what it was:
A spell made of sugar and static,
broken by the sound of my own truth.
*Photo by me
PSYCHIC SUFFOCATION
There is a subtle, sticky, manipulative energy that doesn’t even have a name. No bruises. No threats. No proof. Just a tension in the body. A scream your nervous system whispers while your mind tries to stay polite.
It comes cloaked in affection. Wrapped in concern. Drenched in "just checking in."
It looks like love. It sounds like care. But it feels like static wrapped in sugar.
It wants nothing and everything. It wants to sit next to you long enough that you forget what silence feels like. It wants entry without ever asking permission.
They never say it directly.
Because directness risks rejection.
And rejection confirms the wound they’re trying to avoid.
So instead, they hover. They imply. They guilt. They watch. They wait.
This is an obsession, cloaked in affection. Guilt-tripping, disguised as care. It’s "I’m worried about you" that really means "I’m worried I’m losing access to you."
It’s a slow psychic invasion that builds the illusion of connection so gradually, you don’t notice when it becomes a cage.
They want a love story, but they won’t write it with you.
They’ll try to negotiate it behind your back. Through your friends. Through your silence. Through any opening you leave unguarded.
They don’t know how to generate warmth, so they borrow yours. Leeching joy like a cracked USB cable, plugging into your frequency, hoping it’ll charge the hollow inside them.
This is psychic suffocation.
You feel it in the way your soul goes silent when they message.
In the way your body tightens before your mind can find words.
And that confusion? That’s their entry point.
They count on you being too kind to shut the door.
But this time, you saw it.
You called it by name, even if it had none.
I used to call it love.
Now I call it what it was:
A spell made of sugar and static,
broken by the sound of my own truth.
*Photo by me