Death to the bad girl

God I’ve spent so much time on my good girl.
Unraveling her, dismantling her, rewiring her.

That I almost forgot about my bad girl.

The good girl asks me to pretend like we don’t have one.
Like we are only good and that’s the only place there is to look.

But no.
My bad girl is just as loud.
She manifests herself in rebellion, in uniqueness, and in ways of defeat.

See,
The good girl is what makes me fit in.
But the bad girl…

Oh the bad girl is actually more important —

She’s what makes me stand out.

She’s what makes me special.

She’s what had me do naked photos 5 years ago.
Because it was slightly defiant.
Because people got upset about it.

I remember my family friend reaching out multiple times to say how worried she was about me.
And as much as I say it bothers me when people “worry about me,” a part of me f*ckin loved that.

I’ve been a bad girl.
Worry about me.
Please worry about me.

I must be doing something important if there is cause for worry.

My bad girl is what had me become prey to men
I did
I did that.
I learned how to hold myself, speak, look, move in a way that lured them in.
Bad girl.

It’s part of what made s*x so hot.
It wasn’t the sensations or the connection so much as it was the game.
The electrifying gratification of being preyed upon.
Of being the one he chose.
Of being sexy enough or magnetic enough to get it.

Bad bad bad.

And then,
Here’s the real crappy part of the bad girl,
That I can feel as I share these shadowy pieces of my experience…

The bad girl
Also has me shame myself.
The bad girl also says,
“See? You do everything wrong.”

The bad girl
Gets off on how f*cked up I am.

She loves it when she gets to take a perceived mistake and grab onto it and twist it and make sure I know how terrible I am.

The bad girl, is just perfectionism in reverse.
She’s just sitting in the dark, waiting for imperfections to feed on.
Something to rev her up, spike her shame, and light up her rebellious ways.

I know we like to think we can be “bad”
(Read: sexy, rebellious, badass, etc)
Without feeling bad.

We like to think we can just enjoy the fun part,
Without having to face the music.

But being a badass
Is a RESULT of the feeling bad.

That is why it exists.

Being a badass has us grab onto the feeling bad,
And concoct a story, an identity, and an entire lifestyle so we don’t have to actually touch it.

So much of my conscious life has been about trying to be good, better, acceptable.

But really, what have I been worshipping this whole time?

The bad.
The different.
The sexy rebel.

And now,
As the good girl is taking off her final layers,
The bad girl is up.
She is loud.

But she has to go too.

I don’t get to fit in.
And I don’t get to stand out.

I am not special for my kinky ways.
My defiance does not get me love.
It only keeps me trapped
In forever trying to get it.