men that tried to fight me.

[she’s “you might be able to kick my ass, but i will also swing on sight” energy]

been that bitch since birth—
just built different.

they think just because i say,
“nah, that little troll has a homicidal wish,”
just because i register the threat
like a walking true crime episode,
that you’ve gotta be passive or weak.
baby—
two things can be true.
yeah, he’s dangerous.
yeah, he could kill me.
and also?
the audacity makes me wanna swing first.

welcome.
a multi-generational,
multi-abuser,
multi-era beatdown by me:
a hot,
sleep-deprived
apex predator
with a vendetta
and an attitude too big for my body.

i’ve been fighting men since before i lost my baby teeth.
since before i knew what a trauma bond was.
and somehow—every single one of them
looked shocked when i hit back.

like oh nooo she’s hostile.
no, bitch.
i just don’t take getting my ass beat—
lying down.

so yeah—
i’ve been dialing up this fight playlist
since i was a kid with
skinned knees and big moods.
got into it with my dad first—
didn’t phase me.
he threw…everything.
always breaking and brutalizing.
so—
i threw hands with a kid’s rage
and my brother’s metal baseball bat.

then came mr. long-term bad attitude™,
the little man energy.
his strategy?
“pin her down,
maybe she’ll shut the fuck up”
lol, honey,
i scrapped back so hard
he paused mid-pin and went,
“damn, you’re strong.”
like it was a compliment
and not the sound of him
being a punk ass bitch.
but bet.

next one didn’t hit—
but he told me once
he thought about it.
you really said out loud
“i thought about hitting you”
like that was something to share.

like—
you little bitch,
i’m like a buck twenty.
imagine standing across from your girl
thinking, “damn, i might have to fight her.”

congrats, babe.
you passed the world’s lowest bar.
the “didn’t commit felony assault”
club is very exclusive.

next one tried to fight me pregnant.
yup.
you heard that right.

full belly. baby kicks. maternity sweatpants.
and he looked at me like it was go time.

like “what would really spice up my war crimes résumé?”
oh, right—WWE’ing a woman
in her third trimester with a slight wobble.

and bro—
6’ full grown
when he came for me with my baby inside?
feral.
i was like game,
fucking.
on.
motherfucker.
i fought for my fucking life.
he won.
i got my ass kicked.
over
and
over.
but best believe—
i would’ve died trying.

listen,
i used to climb kitchen countertops
for a tactical advantage over
my dad.
you think you scare me?
nah.
i was choosing which bat to grab
at age nine.

i’ve been battle-ready
since the era of light-up shoes.
trauma taught me how to throw hands.
you’re not scary—
you’re just loud and emotionally underdeveloped.

you raise your voice?
i’m already calculating exits.
you step forward?
cool.
i’ve got a flashback,
a plan,
and a grudge.

i’ve fought men who were legally allowed to tuck me in.
i’ve fought men with combat experience,
with marriage licenses,
with little man god complexes.

you think you’re dangerous
because you did some pushups and slam doors?
lol.
i’m the fucking consequence.

you think it’s wild i didn’t die?
babe.
(me too)
i thrived.
you fed me violence
and i said,
if you insist.

so yeah—
you went full geneva conference violation
on a woman bankrolling you
while trying to make your child.
how strong you feel, king?
big man.

and pop?
you really did that.
swung on an 8-year-old
like your masculinity was hanging by a thread
and my 3rd grade homework was the final straw.

congrats. match. set. slay.

but don’t get it confused—
just because i name the threat
doesn’t mean i don’t still daydream about
laying them out in a
fucking waffle house parking lot.

multiple truths.
duality.
balance.

because—
these men are dangerous.
and also a tiny car full of clowns.
yes—lethal.
and also deeply,
laughably punchable.