Litany for the Shark in Her

I don’t want the girl who climbs the ladder and apologizes on the way up.
The one who smooths her khakis, smiles at the wolves, and calls that survival.

I want the one who yells at the warden without blinking.
Who says no like it’s sacred.
Who doesn’t fear being labeled too much — because she was never trying to be manageable.

She makes the whole institution itch.
And I fell in love with the sound of her squeaking.

She was made for friction.
She was born sideways in a world that demands smallness.

She loved me like a riot — sharp, territorial, unapologetically hers.
When we joked about opening the relationship, she said she’d skin the girl alive, wear her like a coat, and wink at me while she zipped it.
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She wasn’t joking.
God, I loved her for that.

She has a great white shark tattooed next to her pussy.
Because she bites.
Because she is the threat.
Because she knows exactly how dangerous her body becomes when it refuses to be owned.

She told me once she wanted to get my teeth marks tattooed on her shoulders.
Said it so casually like we were planning brunch.
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But I never felt safer than when she said that.

I don’t want the girl who keeps her image polished.
The one who is engaged to a woman she hasn’t smiled at in months and still hosts dinner parties like nothing’s rotting beneath the marble.

She networks.
She performs.
She would sell me out so fast they’d never even find the body.

You think “agreeable” means safe?
I’ve learned better.
Quiet women will feed you to the system and call it grace.

Give me the squeaky wheel.
Give me the girl who breaks the peace because it was never peaceful to begin with.
Give me the one who kicks doors, defends you like it’s holy, and means it when she says forever — even if it looks like hell some days.

I want the woman who loves like a warning label.
Who fights with me and for me in the same breath.

She doesn’t play nice.
She plays real.
She plays blood-deep.
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but I would’ve buried bodies with her.