I miss being a menace.
I miss who I was before I decided to let a man tell me who I was allowed to be. I had an appetite and didn’t apologize for it. I could devour a group of men with one sentence and laugh about it in front of a bar at 2 o’clock in the morning. There was fire on my heels and water in my heart. There were feelings without funerals. But I still wore black and cried over bodies I never killed. I still wanted things. God, I wanted things.
There was a self-obsession in me. A knife in my garter ready to cut a man to ribbons if he tried to tame me. Life was a party, and men were the confetti spilling from balloons I couldn’t wait to pop. I held a little needle between my thumb and pointer finger and went around piercing every one I could. Every time one exploded, I’d create showers of glitter. When I was done, I’d scatter their remains across the floor, decorating the path behind me. It was onto the next adventure, the next mission, the next man, the next woman, the next version of me—growing bigger and bigger, rolled in confetti and fire without every spilling a drop from that throbbing organ in my chest.
It was for me.
I believed I could get anyone, be anything, climb any mountain. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I’d fall. But there was always gasoline at the bottom, igniting me to get up and do it all over again.
I was unkillable.
Things happened between then and now. I fell one last time and found myself lying in a puddle of my own wreckage. Like whatever beat the shit out of me had shoved my face in my true desires like a dog who pissed on the carpet.
Hey, remember this?
Remember when you wanted true love?
Remember crawling across glass to be loved by your Mommy?
Do you remember that your Daddy died and now you look for him in every man?
Did you forget that you’re more than hell on heels and a switchblade between your thighs?
Yeah, I did actually. I did forget. That was kind of the fucking point.
Because back then, everything I secretly wanted was always chasing me. I never even had to try. As long as I kept moving, it’d keep chasing. The difference was, I never let it catch me.
It isn’t that my fire is gone. It’s that whatever put it out was bigger than me. A fire is easy to keep going when you throw gasoline on it. What happens when you’re stranded and all you have are two sticks to rub together?
My sobriety was the first. Then three heartbreaks. I raw dogged healing by the way. I was forced to feel everything. And I mean everything. What I had been chasing finally caught up with me, but this time I couldn’t run. I couldn’t just pop the balloons, throw the confetti and leave glitter in my wake. I was confronted with every wound I’d buried. They came crawling out of their graves on a random January night in 2020 when I finally dumped dipshit. Then again and again and again. The other things that happened to me, I won’t even bother explaining because you wouldn’t believe me if I tried.
Life humbles you. Beats you. It crumbles everything you’ve built before the awakening.
And you can either get buried underneath the rubble or you can crawl the fuck out and build a new one.
So I tried to be softer. I became more giving. Vulnerable. More willing to sacrifice pieces of myself.
How do you want me?
Do you like my hair like this?
Is this good enough for you?
Please punish me for having boundaries.
No, really. It’s okay.
Like a wolf turning itself inside out just to show a little lamb has been hiding beneath. And that wolf ate me from the inside every day, telling me how hungry she was. Asking if I’ve forgotten my teeth. She is still there. Chewing on the past of her own ruin.
I thought being softer would bring me sweetness, but it brought me wolves. A different kind of wolf than I was. And I thought, maybe if I’m a good fucking girl, I’ll be treated gently. But I am more beaten down now, when I’ve nearly forgotten how to howl at the moon.
I even tried to cover myself more.
Dressing modestly didn’t make me less sexualized. It invited more coercion. Men felt they had to manipulate me out of my pants. When I was unclothed and wild, at least men were more confident in being honest about their intentions. Either way, you’re getting fucked—consensually or otherwise.
As for me—
I see a wolf and a lamb inhabiting the same body, and that’s something to love and fear. Nobody could lay themselves upon the altar and make their own slaughter look as much like devotion as I do. Sometimes I remember how to bite. And nobody makes sinking their teeth into someone else look this fucking good. No one could swallow a mouthful of blood like I can without flinching.
I am still self-obsessed by the way.
But my fires burn lower now. You no longer need to see me from across the ocean to know I’m burning. You also don’t need to be close enough to know that I’m warm.
That’s the thing about getting close—the closer someone gets, the further away they seem. Most want to warm themselves by my fire, but when they realize I’m made of water, they want to find shelter. Everything that falls from the sky during a storm is inside me and not everyone wants to get wet.
You might love the feel of fire, but not everyone wants to test the waters.
That doesn’t mean I love me any less. What it does mean is that I still have it. It’s still there—in the way I love, in the way I fight, the way I could wrap my arms around you and enjoy the fucking struggle.
But there will always be the nagging in the back of my mind.
You’re not pretty enough.
You’re not funny enough.
You’re not smart enough.
I’ve allowed other people’s behavior to dictate how I see myself. Even if only for a moment.
Now that the ego is stripped and tender, I can’t keep running with fire on my heels and never let anything catch me. I’m too wet and worn and it’s windy between these hollow ribs. And I have a wolf eating me from the inside slowing me down most days.
I’m easier to possess now. Easier to touch. Easier to influence. Easier to mold.
How do you want me?
Do you like my hair like this?
Is this good enough for you?
Please punish me for having boundaries.
No, really. It’s okay.
And I hate myself. I hate myself for wanting you to see me in what your version of beauty is. I hate myself for planting a parent in someone who I know will eventually abandon me. And yet, I love myself for the same reason. For wanting to please. For wanting to be loved. Because these are beautiful things. But I am just a lamb now and I get quiet when the moon hangs.
The days are getting shorter. The nights are a bit darker.
And I miss her.
I miss being a menace.
Really, it was all just detaching myself from the outcome. I didn’t need to chase love because I was full of it. And I think I still am. But somewhere along the way, I became the balloon—thin-skinned, fragile, and easier to pop.
Now that I’ve been turned inside out, how am I supposed to find the woman I used to be? I don’t know. I do know that if I continue to wear my heart on my sleeve, dangerous things will happen.
Maybe it’s about balance.
Maybe it’s about extremes.
The real question is—can a lamb grow fangs? And how long can I keep a predator inside of me before it devours itself?
Anyway, if you find a trail of confetti, just know I figured it out.
Raw wild and beautifully dangerous