The Ghost That Wore My Lover’s Face

Sadly, this is a true story.

She didn’t arrive in firelight or fanfare.

She arrived in fragments. In falters. In fuck-me eyes and faltering breath.

A broken bird with bloodied wings, tweeting the sweet symphony of suffering just loud enough for me to hear above my own loneliness.

And of course — I bit.

Because I’m not just a man, am I?

No, I’m a fixer. A rescuer. A bard with a hammer.

And she? She was the damsel in distress…

…with a dagger tucked beneath her dress.

She didn’t knock. She seeped.

Into the cracks, the crevices, the quiet places I used to call mine.

She dressed her chaos in charm, her lies in lullabies, her destruction in devotion.

And me? I folded like a prayer.

She painted me her protector. Her prophet. Her personal Jesus Christ with a beard and a bad back.

I was the one — the only one — who truly understood her.

The only man who could hold her, heal her, help her howl at the moon.

But it wasn’t love.

It was leverage.

See, the wraith doesn’t fall for you. She files you — into categories.

Useful. Gullible. Kind.

Delicious.

She was sweet at first. Soft as snowfall. Said all the right things with all the right sighs. Smiled like a saint.

Stared up from her knees with wide, worshipful eyes and told me I was her anchor.

No, Ulf, not just a man — the man. The only one left worth saving her from herself.

And I, Gods help me, fell for it.

No — I folded into it.

Like a blade being sheathed.

Into someone else’s spine.

But it wasn’t me she wanted.

It was the devotion. The obedience. The oxygen.

Because once I was hooked —

Once I was properly, pathetically hers —

The slow rot began.

Not loud. Not obvious. No, no. That would be amateur hour.

She dismantled me with care. With craft. With the gentle touch of someone defusing a bomb they built themselves.

“You’re too intense.”

“You’re too sensitive.”

“You don’t get it.”

Funny how the echo of your own worthlessness sounds so reasonable in her voice.

Meanwhile, I apologised for crimes I didn’t commit.

Took the kids to bed.

Folded the blankets.

Chose the film.

Waited for a woman who’d already left the room hours ago — or passed out in a pharmaceutical coma with her mouth half open and her soul already out window-shopping for a new supply.

But sure, I told myself. She’s just tired. Just unwell.

If I love her harder, she’ll come back. Right?

Wrong.

She wasn’t asleep. She was absent.

She wasn’t overwhelmed. She was orchestrating.

She texted exes.

She made peace offerings to ghosts.

She offered closure like a gift-wrapped grenade.

“I just wanted to say sorry,” she’d write.

To them.

Not to me.

I’d be brushing her hair while she fell asleep in my arms — and she’d be texting her last mistake, planting the seed for the next.

And I stayed.

Of course I stayed. Because I’m loyal.

Because I’m noble.

Because I’m a bloody idiot.

She raged. I reasoned.

She cried. I comforted.

She lied. I doubted myself.

That’s how it works.

It’s not abuse, not really — not when it’s covered in concern and trauma and “I can’t help it.”

It’s not manipulation — it’s mental health.

It’s not betrayal — it’s just closure.

It’s not cheating — it’s healing.

She played the part so well even I started believing the script.

And I was the co-star.

She used sex like scripture.

Moments of godhood offered like communion — always timed to just before I’d walk away.

It wasn’t intimacy. It was insurance.

She knew what I craved and she fed it to me like a dealer with a halo.

And now? Now I can’t even feel arousal without a whisper of her voice in the dark.

She’s woven into the wiring.

My desire was devoured.

My lust colonised.

She didn’t sleep with me.

She synced herself to me like malware.

Me, and various others.

And I still wanted her.

Still.

Even after the betrayal, the smear campaigns, the false accusations —

Even after she tried to destroy my name, my life, my ability to look my children in the eye —

I wanted to protect her.

That’s not love.

That’s trauma with a hard-on.

It doesn’t make sense.

It isn’t supposed to.

It’s not a love story — it’s a psychological hostage situation with lingerie.

And when I left?

When I finally woke up and decided to get out?

She didn’t vanish.

She simply updated the narrative.

Now, I’m the villain.

I’m the one who “hurt her,” who “abandoned her,” who “let her down.”

She calls me and I ignore— wraiths don’t make for good conversation. And in any case, I know I’m powerless against her lies and manipulations.

Radio silence —ignorance— is my armour now.

She calls my friends, begs them to hear her out — tells them that her new boyfriend made her say it.

That he made her accuse me.

That he's controlling her. That she needs saving.

That she didn’t want to hurt me.

Of course she didn’t.

She just wanted control.

Because that’s what this is always about.

Control.

Not closure. Not healing. Not “moving on.”

She left her claws in me. Buried deep. So when the new one asks her why she flinches when doors slam, she can sigh and say, “it’s because of him.”

And I bet she says my name like a curse.

Like an exorcism.

Like the ghost that won’t let go.

But here’s the truth:

She’s not haunted.

She’s the haunting.

And I see it now.

See her fully. See the succubus in the silk dress. The ghost in the girl’s skin. The remnant that walks and talks and bleeds others dry with a smile.

And I know — I know — she was never really there.

She was just a role I needed filled, and she played it like a professional.

Like a shapeshifter with a drama degree and a dagger behind her back.

So I hold the line.

Every day I don’t answer.

Every day I don’t fantasise.

Every day I don’t go sniffing through old photos like a war widow in a house fire —

That’s a win.

Every hour she doesn’t live in my mind is a life reclaimed.

She’s not my poison anymore.

She’s just a symptom I survived.

She didn’t love me.

She used me — utterly and expertly.

And I? I let her.

But not anymore.

No more stage.

No more script.

No more saviour complex in a cape made of compromise.

Now, I rise.

Crawling out of the coffin she called “comfort.”

Dragging my bloody limbs toward a life that’s mine again.

Breathing without her voice in my lungs.

Wanting without her ghost in my bed.

She never ruined me.

But gods, she came close.

And if I go back? She finishes the job.

But I won’t.

Not for love. Not for lust. Not for longing.

Because now I know—

She was never really there.

And I?

I’m finally learning how to be.

* * * * *

🪓 Like what you read?🪓

🪙 Then toss a coin into the fountain.

Make a wish —

for wilder words, sharper truths,

and more wild-folk with wild hair doing wild things.

Each offering stirs the water, feeds the fire,

and helps one such beast keep writing beneath the stars.

More on this soul-destroying relationship here: