I flirt with danger like it’s my next of kin.

I’ve been wild since birth.

Not loud.

Not reckless-for-the-applause.

The quiet kind of wild that doesn’t run from fire—

it learns its language.

But hear me:

Danger doesn’t love you back.

It just borrows your heartbeat

and forgets your name.

I used to think the edge made me holy.

That scars were proof of depth.

That chaos meant I was chosen for something more.

Truth?

Some of us confuse adrenaline with purpose.

We mistake the cliff for a calling.

I’ve stood in rooms where the air tasted like regret.

I’ve shaken hands with versions of myself

that never made it home.

And every time I walked away,

something stayed behind.

There’s a cost to dancing with the dark—

it always wants a down payment.

I don’t glamorize the flame anymore.

I respect it.

Because fire doesn’t ask who you are

before it decides what you’ll lose.

Still… I won’t lie.

There is a pull.

A hunger.

A whisper that says you were never built for the quiet.

But here’s the warning carved into bone:

If you flirt with danger,

do it with your eyes open.

Know when to leave.

Know when to live.

Because the edge isn’t a home—

it’s a border.

And some never make it back across.

— Saint Dirty Face™

Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.™

(But stay alive.)