Perfume Made of Panic The Scent of a Woman Who Has Outrun Her Ghost

Perfume Made of Panic
The Scent of a Woman Who Has Outrun Her Ghost
                                                                     4:20 a.m.
That feral hour
when the world is quiet enough
to hear your pulse plotting.
That’s when I become a weapon.
This perfume opens like a threat—
ozone and burned nerves,
the smell of a woman who didn’t survive politely.
No flowers.
No forgiveness.
Just heat still crawling up my spine
from the last time fear tried to own me.
Breathe it in.
Go on.
It doesn’t ask permission.
Top notes:
panic with its teeth pulled,
adrenaline sharpened into focus,
the ghost of a scream
turned into a smirk.
I don’t seduce with softness.
I seduce with inevitability.
With eye contact that says
you already lost something and don’t know what yet.
My body remembers every exit—
every lock,
every lie,
every time survival demanded
I become colder than the room.
That’s in the scent too.
Cold steel beneath warm skin.
A sweetness that comes after danger,
not before.
The ghosts still follow.
They always do.
But now they walk slower.
Heavier.
Dragging the chains of their regret
while I move like appetite.
This perfume is the sound
of heels on concrete at dawn.
Of a woman choosing herself
with the same intensity
others reserve for obsession.
Men smell it and want to chase.
That’s the mistake.
Women smell it and nod—
one predator recognizing another
across a crowded room.
There’s a note that hits late—
low, dirty, deliberate—
the moment panic turns predatory,
when fear realizes
it woke up the wrong woman.
That’s where my power lives.
Right there.
In the pause before the strike.
In the silence that makes people confess
things they didn’t plan to give away.
This scent leaves fingerprints
on memory.
It doesn’t fade—
it marks.
It lingers in elevators,
in dreams,
in the back of the throat
when someone realizes
they underestimated me.
Because I am not the girl
who ran crying into the night.
I am the woman
who ran through hell,
learned its language,
and came back fluent.
Once you smell me,
you’ll know:
She didn’t outrun her ghost
to be forgiven.
She did it
to become the thing
that makes fear hesitate.
And panic?
Panic is just the perfume
I wear
when I want to be remembered.