How do I get seen in a world where my longing is now illegal?

Where fire is feminist blasphemy, and a woman who wants a man is called brainwashed instead of brave.

I want him.

Not for his polish. But for the very things they shame: the broad shoulders, the fumbling honesty, the confused silence before he says the wrong thing, and means the right one. And keeps trying.

How do I let him know I still remember the stories. The ones they laugh at now. Where the brute who could crush a skull with one hand carved out space in his ribcage to hold the ache of the woman he loved more than himself. And bled for her.

Not in metaphor. In war.

How do I say: I still want that?

Not hashtags. Not sterile flirtation. Not “mutual partnerships” where no one leads, and no one dies for anything.

I want a man who would slaughter a thousand beasts because I cried. Who would die before letting my tears touch the ground alone.

But how do I say this in a sisterhood where blood is no longer sacred unless it's on the battlefield of corporate ambition? Where the cold hands of Father Time wrap around our ovaries like ivy around gravestones, and the labcoats come with freezer plans for futures we might never have the courage to thaw?

What do I do with this fairy tale still pulsing in my chest like an outlaw heartbeat?

Sometimes I wonder if I am doomed to die in the sister-circle of women who trained themselves to sneer at the very magic they once begged for as girls. Before the textbooks. Before the cubicles. Before the rage.

I kept mine. The story.

I kept him.

Even if he’s still just a shadow in the fog of this sterile world.

I remember the boy with a beast’s heart who flinched at nothing— except the pain in her eyes.

I want that.

Even if I have to stand alone to say it.

Even if he never comes.

I’ll die a romantic, with my battle cry tucked into the hem of my dress, still hoping for a man whose soul

When you told me bye, I didn’t even cry. Not one tear fell— not one why.

I just blinked, and said, alright. Then turned my back and walked out of night.

You wanted to see me shatter, plead. But I’m no longer that kind of need.

You thought I’d beg, thought I’d break. But I’ve already drowned in that kind of ache.

See, I cried before when love felt rare— when silence stung and rooms felt bare.

I cried for boys who left me cold, for dreams that cracked, for hands I’d hold.

But not for you. Not this time. You don’t deserve to be called mine.

I learned to lose and still stay gold. To keep my fire when love turned cold.

So when you left, I didn’t bend. I didn’t chase. I didn’t send a final text, a desperate line. Just turned the page— That hurt’s not mine.

I didn’t sob. I didn’t shake. I poured my tea and baked my cake. I lit my candle, blessed the air— and thanked the stars you weren’t still there.

When you said “bye,” you thought I’d break. But I was already wide awake.

Already done before you spoke. Already saw where the story broke.

I wear my hair down when I want to be HER. Not me. Her.

The version of me who walks slower because she knows you’re watching.

The one who doesn’t try to be seen— she just is. She just steps and the floor makes way.

I wear it down when I want to remember that softness can be lethal too. That grace can sharpen the air like a blade hidden in silk.

Because she doesn’t apologize for taking up space. She doesn’t fumble to fill the silence. She owns the silence and makes you sit in it.

She arrives like a scent you thought was memory— until it grabs your lungs and doesn’t let go.

I wear it down when I want to feel the weight of myself brushing past my shoulders like a curtain I no longer hold back.

Because hair like this isn’t style. It’s signal. A veil undone. A permission revoked.

And if your pulse stutters— that’s not seduction. That’s gravity returning to form.

I don’t wear it down for compliments. I wear it down for ritual.

For remembrance.

Because something ancient wakes up when a woman lets her hair fall— like storm clouds parting for a throne you forgot she left.

I wear my hair down when I want to be HER— the one who loved softer before she was punished for it. The one who rose harder because she remembered who she was.

And when I catch myself in the mirror, chin up, shoulders back, hair unbound— I don’t say I’m pretty.

I say: There she is.

Hey loves — I’m a little rusty. Been quiet. Busy in the kind of way that doesn’t post well.

But I never stopped writing. Just… life has hands, and lately it’s had them on me.

If you're still here, still reading, still reblogging — thank you. You don’t know what it means to be seen even when I’ve gone still.

💄 FASHIONABLY TARDY (EXTENDED)

I’m fashionably tardy for this little party. Took my time, took the floor— then walked in like folklore.

My skirt’s just right, and it hugs me tight. It matches my shirt and the heat of the night.

You wink first. You, boy, are a flirt. You move like a dare with that barely-there smirk.

You step my way— and I feel the sting of wanting to want without offering a ring.

I didn’t move first. I’ve learned that it hurts to reach like I’m starving and look like a thirst.

But you? You tried. That earns you a glance. A maybe. A no. Or a slow-burn dance.

You asked for my name like it held a key. I answered slow— because maybe it does.

And maybe tonight isn’t fate, but a puzzle that fits if we don’t rush the buzz.

I sip something sweet and let the time pass. I wonder if you can handle my class.

You linger, then ask— "Wanna see where this flows?"

I trace the rim of my glass and say soft:

"Let’s see how tonight goes."

Not yes. Not no. Just enough to grow.