Power. The very word evokes an image of nonchalance and stone-faced expressions. The kind that never sways, bends, or wavers. It never lets anyone—or anything—get too close.
For a long time, I believed that was what power looked like. For so long, I tried to steel my heart and smile less, become more immune to passion, untouchable, impossible to shake. But the older I get, the more experiences that life drags me through, I see the cracks in that idea, the cracks in that image.
Because power without love is fear in a crown.
Real Power.
I used to think powerful men were those who had control of their emotions—
Men who could not be swayed by base desires,
who could not be easily bought, caught, brought, or sought.
They were aloof. Elusive.
Able to change the course of events by sheer presence.
But no.
That’s not it.
Powerful men are those who control their emotions—
But come undone before the woman they love.
They are not easily swayed—
But for the one who sees them fully,
they would set the world on fire and walk into the smoke smiling.
Not to prove their strength—
But to show the depth of their loyalty.
They are men who shed every single layer
for the one who reads their unique language.
They don’t fret. They don’t second-guess. They don’t shy away.
When they find the one who strikes the strings of their soul,
they never let go.
And oh, how God loves to test that grip.
But these men—these rare, mythic men—
They come out victorious.
Smirking. Bruised. Holding their person so tightly
That even the divine has to widen its eyes.
The others?
Just copies.
They play with fire, but cannot handle the burn.
Dance with the wild wind, but run from the storm.
Go halfway, then vanish—
always halfway.
They will never be the real thing.
And what do I want?
I want a powerful man.
A man who looks at me once and never looks away.
Who does not regret seeing me?
Who does not ignore me to protect his fear?
Who says I’m special—and proves it in his patterns,
in his consistency,
in how I never have to wonder again.
Mistakes?
There are none.
Because nothing is left to chance.
That’s how deeply he plans.
That’s how clearly he knows.
Once he chooses me,
The only ending is death.
And when that moment comes,
My last breath will whisper:
“Thank you…
for letting me live a love that people only find
in books made of stars and longing.”
That is power.
That is a powerful man.
This piece was inspired by a man who took the leap, and yet couldn’t bear to swim. A man who met my gaze once and then disappeared the next day. He who pulled back the moment love asked him for courage.
It is a confession. A gasp of longing and disappointment after the thrust of the dagger in my being. The dagger that always opens up the wound— Am I not worthy of anyone’s love?
But now it feels different. Wearing the lens of experience and self-love, I have realized that there is a rare kind of man— a mythic kind of man— a man who understands that love isn’t weakness. That letting himself unravel in the hands of the feminine isn’t defeat, but strength, power, and raw destiny.
That is the partner I crave. Not dominance that hides fear. Not stoic silence that hides pain and longing, but no strength. I want the kind of power that chooses me. Plans for me. Stays with me. Stays for me. The kind that doesn’t just say “forever” but builds a life where forever is inevitable.
This piece of inspiration isn’t just fantasy. It is a standard. And it makes me wonder—maybe the only thing rarer than this kind of man is the kind of love that can meet him there.
Do you believe in a power that looks strained? Or love that looks like restraint? Have you ever met someone who held you so fiercely that you stopped wondering if it was safe to love them?
External links
- Click here for a brief read on Greek Mythology’s greatest love stories.