Thrill Junkie

People think thrill means cliff diving,

skydiving,

jumping out of planes with a smile and a GoPro.

But me?

I found my rush in chaos.

In kisses that shouldn’t have happened.

In calls I swore I’d ignore,

but answered anyway

with my heart pounding and my pride on mute.

Thrill was him pulling up unannounced.

Me getting dressed slow on purpose.

Looking in the mirror thinking,

damn, I still got it.

It was nasty sex in public places

outside,

backseat,

on balconies,

in bathrooms

the kind of nights that taste like regret and victory

at the same time.

It was almost getting caught.

Breathless laughs.

Skirt twisted.

Lip gloss smeared.

Satisfaction smirking on both our faces

like we just beat the world at something.

They say thrill is about falling.

But I liked the climb.

The chase.

The tug-of-war between who I am

and who I let myself be when he showed up.

It was the “I know better”

mixed with the

“but I want it anyway.”

That’s the real thrill.

The one where I played with fire,

burned a little,

and smiled through the smoke

because for a second

just one second

it felt like I had it all.

Him.

Me.

The power.

The pleasure.

The danger.

The lie

that maybe this time

I could love recklessly

and walk away clean.