SHES BACK
I used to be the one who showed up first and stayed last.
The one who poured the shots, said “fuck it” to the consequences, and danced in the rain just because the beat felt like freedom.
No reason. No permission.
Just the kind of presence that made other people loosen up without knowing why.
Just the kind of energy that turned boring nights into stories worth retelling.
I said yes before I even knew the questions.
Jumped in before I looked.
Laughed too loud.
Talked to strangers.
Left lipstick on beer cans and had bruises from nights that got too rowdy and too real and too good to regret.
I was a lot.
More than a lot.
Too much for some.
Exactly enough for me.
And I loved it.
Back then, I didn’t apologize for being loud. Or wild. Or extra.
Didn’t soften my voice to make people comfortable.
Didn’t dim my light just to keep someone from squinting.
I was full of fire, full of want, full of whatever-the-fuck-I-felt.
And that wasn’t a warning.
It was a promise.
I miss that.
Not the chaos. Not the mess.
Okay—maybe a little bit of the chaos and mess.
But mostly, I miss the aliveness.
The way I used to glow from the inside out.
The way I used to walk into a room and know I belonged in it—not because I was invited, but because I showed up.
I used to look in the mirror and recognize the woman staring back.
Eyes bright. Shoulders loose.
Whole body humming with “what now?” instead of “what next?”
I used to smirk at my own reflection. I used to wink just for me.
And I want that again.
No—need that again.
I want to be the one people notice when I walk in.
The one who doesn’t wait to be asked—she’s already halfway to the door, grinning.
The one who turns heads and keeps walking like she didn’t even notice.
The one who doesn’t need to explain the glow—she is the explanation.
I want to be the reason someone leans in closer, lowers their voice, asks “who is she?” and means it.
I want to laugh so hard my sides hurt again.
I want to stay out too late.
I want to kiss someone just because the moment dared me to.
I want to forget what time it is, what day it is, what I was worrying about five hours ago.
I want the inside jokes.
The drink in my hand.
The music too loud.
The dance floor too sticky.
The bathroom mirror selfies.
The “we really did that shit” kind of grin when the sun comes up.
I want the unexpected spark of a moment that doesn’t need a label.
I want to wake up sore and sun-kissed and full again.
Full of stories. Full of breath. Full of life.
Mine.
I want to be alive.
Not just living.
I want to be lit up.
Not just flickering.
I want to be wanted.
Not just needed.
I want to be seen.
Not just looked passed.
And I think she’s back.
Not gone. Not forgotten.
Not some ghost I only get to visit in old photos or blurry memories.
She was just underneath everything.
Waiting.
Quiet.
Coiled.
Waiting for the right night. The right outfit. The right ride. The right song.
Waiting for me to say “fuck it”—and mean it.
To stop explaining.
To stop justifying.
To stop playing small.
She’s breaking free.
And she’s not just coming back.
She’s coming back fucking louder.
And this time, she’s not asking.
She’s taking up space.
She’s taking the night.
She’s taking me with her.
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