You dared to rate me—5 out of 10,
As if I needed approval from broken men.
Was your ego bruised when I said you weren’t worthy?
Not worthless, no—but lacking in your journey.
You hadn’t worked on yourself, not a single step,
Expecting me to carry the weight you’d never kept.
You wanted a mirror of your teenage dream,
But I’d outgrown those days, far from that scene.
I wasn’t looking for a project, a boy to fix,
While you drowned in booze, pride, and your pornographic mix.
You, at 23, asked me to play your mother,
After I said no, you still sought no other.
Do you think I, as a woman, wanted this load?
To bear your baggage while losing my own road?
You begged, "Be my mom at least"—what a plea,
While I was striving to stay sane, to stay free.
Now you look at me with pity in your eyes,
Acting like I’m broken, beneath your lies.
You said, "Hey, don’t take it personally," with a grin,
But you infected my health, tore me from within.
It’s personal—deep in my bones, in my breath,
Every ounce of stress you brought, every step toward death.
Laugh if you must, call me insane,
But I never claimed sainthood to ease the pain.
I knew my demons, and I had my fight,
But I refused to carry yours into the night.
I chose myself, not your childish demand,
Not a fixer, a mother, nor your helping hand.
So go ahead, rate me again,
But your words, like you, are hollow and thin.
~ Kanika Kaushal ✨ The Luminous Muse
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