the little girl in me keeps asking if it’s safe yet. 👧🏼🧸🫣

like—
how wild
is it that my brain
still craves
someone stepping
between me and the world,
when the evidence is
a three decade-long disaster
of men who couldn’t even
step between me
and the goddamn sink full of dishes.

i want to be feral.
self-contained.
but somewhere in me,
the little girl—
is still tugging a sleeve,
looking up,
whispering: 👧🏼🎀
“please don’t let me
do this alone. just once.
just once, can you protect me?”

instead i get silence.
instead i get all the bills in my name,
bruises i have to document,
cops who ask if i’m being vengeful.
🐍🖤💋

and i hate
how much i want it.
hate how much
my body still aches
for someone’s shadow
to cover mine.
hate how
i would probably
fucking melt
for the bare minimum
fucking shield—
like a man
standing in a doorway
and saying

👤✋✨ “not her. not today.”

it’s humiliating,
honestly.
to crave protection
in a life where
i’ve had to build
my own fucking fortress.

i can cite
rule 4(e)(2)(B) in class,
i can figure out
single motherhood,
with zero fucking backup—
i can install window bars,
train a german shepherd,
walk into midterms
with a fucking fever
because the babysitter
goddamn ghosted,
👩‍💻✨
and still—
still i ache
for someone
to just step in and say:

“i’ve got her. she doesn’t fight this one alone.” 🥀🗝️

i know,
it’s so stupid.
that there’s still
this pathetic,
feral fucking wish:
that somebody,
someday,
might finally
stand between me
and the goddamn knife.

🔪