rxmantc

You can call me Romantic. I’ve chosen to use an alias for several reasons, primarily to protect my privacy. However, I do plan to reveal my identity upon the publication of my book, Theory of Humanity.

My pronouns are she/her, and I actively choose not to label my sexual identity.

I am eighteen years old, and my content is not intended for immature minds or audiences. While I strive to be inclusive, I prefer that minors under the age of sixteen refrain from viewing my content, regardless of the context. Though I have no intention of posting anything NSFW, should such content ever appear, it will include a clear, explicit disclaimer stating that it is not suitable for anyone under the age of consent. Most, if not all, of my content will consist of poetry or my opinions on controversial topics, which is why I recommend it for audiences aged sixteen and older.

Further more, I will never comment about a mental disorder I do not extensively know about or have struggles with personally. The only exception of such incident may be how to manage it via healthy coping mechanisms. Some of my content has elements of my personal struggles with mental illness, however, I will not be stating my diagnosis statuses online. Some content may be blatant vents of my struggles, mental health involved or not. I do not and will never promote violent behavior/self destructive behavior, additionally, I am not a professional. If you need help please contact a professional, or local emergency hotline.

My passion lies in psychology, particularly developmental psychology. I am largely self-taught, with six years of independent study, as well as formal education through dual-enrollment classes in psychology and sociology during high school. My ultimate goal is to pursue a career as a psychologist. This platform will serve as a space to share my work and document my progress in this field.

I am currently on track to graduate in May 2025. After graduation, I plan to focus on building my career in psychology, which may result in reduced activity here.

Comments, DMs, Concerns, Tips, ETC are welcome.

You can find my other social media accounts with the username rxmantc or rxmantcc. I currently have X (Twitter), Tumblr, and TikTok… but as TT is being banned here in the US there isn’t really much point to following it.

The Edge of Madness

The scent of arousal and sweat hangs heavy in the air, clinging to the walls, intoxicating. The room feels suffocating with us — a space shared, yet vast, where time slows and the flicker of a lone candle casts shadows that dance across their skin. Their eyes catch the flame, glimmering with something unreadable, something maddening. The tension coils around my mind, tightening, relentless.

My fingers ghost over their skin, the barest whisper of touch, as if memorizing a map I’ve long known by heart. Every inch of them, every fragile, shuddering weakness — I know it all. My hands find their place at the curve of their hips, pulling them closer, until we are separated only by breath. A thread. A hair. I linger, eyes drifting down to their lips, then flicking up to meet theirs — a fleeting moment, charged and unbearable.

And then I move. No — I halt. My hand glides upward, fingers tangling into the base of their hair. I take hold. Hard. A sharp pull, yanking their head back, exposing the curve of their throat. My breath catches, rage and desire twisting into something darker. “You dare test me…?” The words slip from my lips, low, trembling with fury.

Their eyes meet mine — challenging, daring, satisfied. The flicker of defiance ignites something savage inside me. My grip tightens, pulling harder, and they gasp — soft, fleeting. The sound drives me deeper into madness. My teeth sink into my lower lip, gaze locked on theirs, unyielding. The glimmer in their eyes taunts me, feeds the chaos. I want to break them. To make them crumble beneath my hands, to draw out every shiver, every tear.

Slowly, it creeps forward, fully emerging from the mist. The chrome snow clings to its fur like the hush before a confession. The distance between us is a breath, a heartbeat, a question waiting to be answered—why hasn’t it lodged its teeth into me?

Their gaze, once a promise of pursuit, is something quieter now. No less consuming, but softer—sweeter? It weighs more than mere hunger.

I do not run.

They do not chase.

The hunt was never about conquest—it was about intimacy, about learning the rhythm of my movements, my voice, my being. The space between us dissolves, the line between predator and prey erased. Had it ever truly existed?

I let them near. I let their warmth press into mine; they circle me—pressing their body against mine as though a house cat.

I let their weight become my own.

And as the night reaches its peak, they reveal something to me—

A wound.

One I somehow already knew was there.

A whine escapes me at the sight. My only instinct is to comfort. I rest my head around its neck.

I find myself wishing to rewrite this story, to erase the memory of harm done to this poor wolf.

I find myself grooming this wolf, not a patch of fur out of place by the time I finish.

They lay beside me, and I keep watch, my gaze stretching as far as the night will allow… but I am a mere doe. What can I do to protect this hurt dog?

Then, suddenly, they stand.

They turn to me, lowering into a playful stance. I hesitate—worried still, but they bark, bright and demanding, urging me to rise, to play. It passively tells me they needn’t protection.

My eyes soften. What a silly puppy.

I rise. I run. I chase the wolf.

Is this real?

He is no longer a threat; no longer a question of when he will strike.

He was just lost, just as I once was.

Sometimes I question myself, my dreams are just dreams. Huge aspirations that could be achieved but what’s the point.?

Sure. Im smart. But what good does that do me in a world of stupid people? What is my point. Solely to serve others?

And why do I hate that? My dream IS to help people, god I look to help people I barely know now. Wishing I had more money to give back directly to those who need it or just show genuine love or kindness towards others.

I want to give back… but im oddly so tired of always being the one to understand but never understood.

To men, they don’t see my knowledge. If they do they see it as me playing hard to get, or not as easy to sway into playing into their pleasure.

Even at the young age of eighteen, that’s ALL I have ever known. Men lusting over my body, my own father, my uncle, people I barely knew. I was a CHILD and even despite that… I didn’t let that shape me into a shit person.

Sure yeah im strong I hear that all the time. Oh yeah I’ll find someone who’ll listen.

Sometimes I realize that it just is me sometimes. Me trauma maneuvering into my waking consciousness, making me afraid to trust.

Even recently all i experienced is pain.

Nobody cares and yeah this is the cruel reality of the world but if I can be empathetic; if I would never do that to someone why the hell would you ever? This just tied right back into my stupid book I’ll never finish. Morality and trauma ties into one another… I’d never harm anyone. I don’t dare think of such… but because of trauma sense of morals shift. But god I still just. Im so frustrated with the world…

Why can’t you just understand me? Why are you different. Why don’t you want to understand my views and respect them.

I know im pretty thanks for telling me i dont care though. Tell me something about myself i didnt realize, remember things about me. Respect me.

I don’t want to be your toy you can flash around your friends when you want them to suck your cock too.

I am a person of value, I won’t let anyone make me feel otherwise. I refuse to fall below your stupid ego. Just because you are a man and have some aspirations doesn’t make you at all better than me and I surely don’t owe you a goddamn cent let alone my body or energy.

This hate burns fierce,

a passion I haven’t felt in years.

They say love and hate are entwined, don’t they?

Your hands, rough and filthy,

stained with dirt, and the residue of suds,

and car oil buried beneath your nails.

A liar at heart,

you twist the truth like thread,

manipulating others to fulfill

whatever fleeting whim consumes you.

You hold them at bay with false affection,

a touch of attention,

making them feel special,

only to discard them

when their nearness becomes inconvenient.

And then, you entertain another—

your pattern repeats, endlessly.

You are a pathetic excuse for a man,

proclaiming dreams of marriage,

yet betraying the only woman

who ever loved you wholly, truly.

You turn to others pleating your innocence, that she is the liar!

Are you not tired of yourself?

The cruelest irony—

I loved you.

I loved every flaw, every scar.

I loved you for who you were,

not for who I could shape you to be.

And you, seeing my devotion,

took it as a challenge—

testing the limits of my heart.

When I spoke my love,

you rejected me,

called me delusional,

denied the touch we once shared.

I hate you.

I hate watching you destroy others,

turning them into your withered puppets.

They don’t even see it—

you’ve convinced them they’re special.

But all you see is their body,

their money, their time.

And so, I pray—not for forgiveness,

but for your fall.

For nothing more

Beyond the tree stretches an amber sky, glowing softly with gentle hues of red and purple as I gaze upward through the gentle rain of blossoming pink.

The golden sunlight kisses my skin, while the wind carries melodies weaving through the leaves above me.

Beneath the tree, I close my eyes and imagine myself twirling among the floating petals,

Each step light, each movement elegant—dancing in harmony with the breeze.

In that moment, I felt unbound, weightless, utterly free.

But before I knew it, the moon had risen to its highest point, its silver glow casting shadows around me.

My body shivered, hollow and cold. Freedom had come—but so had the aching truth: I was utterly alone.