Swipe Left On Perfection

I’m a raver with a heart of gold,
earplugs in, head bobbing on beat.
Lights flash, heavy bass steadies me.
I map the exits. I sip water. I breathe.

I’m Goldilocks on a dance floor,
Enjoying my life, welcoming my “just right”
The porridge is the vibe,
the chair is a boundary,
the bed is how we rest together.

Bear One: Avoidant Attachment.
He stands at the edge of the crowd,
eyes careful, smile closed.
He says, I’m fine, don’t worry—then vanishes.
His porridge is too cold—no steam, no scent.
His chair looks sturdy until I lean.
His bed is made with sharp corners—
no place for a future let alone the morning.
I say: I care about you,
but I can’t love a ghost,
I can’t slow-dance through a door that won’t open.

Bear Two: Anxious Attachment.
He texts before the drop, during, after—
Are you here? Are you okay? Do you still want me?
His porridge is too hot—
all flame, no breath.
His chair tilts me forward until I tip.
His bed I don’t meet, rushing won’t let us sleep—
checking, checking, checking.
I say: I like for you as a friend
as I need space to dance,
room to finish a thought,
silence to hear my own song.

Then—Bear Three: Me.
I become the “just right” I was seeking:
porridge warm, boundaries clear,
a chair that holds both of us, balanced,
a bed where trust is soft and sleep comes easy.
I am still Goldilocks, yes—
but I am also the third bear now,
and I’m looking for that bear, now myself, in another.

Future Bear: Secure Attachment.
They meets my gaze, then looks away, then back—
no tug, no vanish.
They asks, Want water? Need quiet? Want to dance?
The porridge is warm—
steady heat I can trust.
Their chair fits my shape—
I sit, I rise, it’s still there.
A bed so soft without swallowing me.
We sleep, we wake, we laugh about our dreams and the stories of the night before.

With them, I can info-dump about the DJ’s set,
about stims that help, about sunlight hurting.
They listens, not to fix me, but to know me.
They tells me what they feel, not what they think I want. They don’t fear my questions.
We take breaks when my senses spike—
hallway, cool air, counting breaths.
We return when I’m ready.

But until then, I’m still Goldilocks.
I bring my own spoon and seat cushion.
I taste slowly. I sit briefly. I try the bed last.
I choose what’s kind to my nervous system.
I pick “just right” by how my body unclenches,
how my words find room,
how the night ends gentle.

Until we meet, Music can be that bear—
steady arms of wonky bass,
A Pash of melody when night gets drafty.
Community can be that bear—
hands up, circle wide,
water shared, shoulders checked,
we keep each other safe under the lasers.

And like the old story’s ending, I learn:
I won’t enter homes—or hearts—without permission. I always have choices.
I’ll think twice, every time.
I won’t seek the too-cold or the too-hot;
I won’t chase what isn’t secure,
or anyone who doesn’t live by the rave’s promise:
Peace, Love, Unity, Respect—PLUR for you, and PLUR for me.
I keep my door kind and locked, my welcome warm and clear.
If you carry your own key of consent and care,
come in.
If not, I wish you well through the smell of street meat on your walk in the woods.

So I dance, third-bear steady, Goldilocks brave—
home in my body,
home in the crowd,
home in the music,
until “just right” finds me,
and we make a cottage we both have keys to.