IDK Why TF I’m Telling You All This…But I Kissed Severed Heads
Hiiii! If you click here i’ll read it to you :)
So I went to the opera Salome recently, dressed like a cutie patootie who’s seasonal depression was finally saying it’s goodbyes (for now). Flowing fabric, eyes lined, curls moussed, energy soft but magnetic—unintentionally channeling the main character before I even knew who she was.
Me, thinking I was just going to the opera… not realizing I’d be writing an entire essay about rejection and lowkey existentially crisis-ing after (also, that neon sign?? yeah…ok keep reading. also also, the shades are loewe but this is NOT a fashion blog fr fr!)
Relevant background: Salome is a one-act opera by Richard Strauss, based on a play by Oscar Wilde. It follows a young princess named Salome, who becomes dangerously obsessed with John the Baptist. He’s imprisoned beneath the palace, and despite her beauty and status, he refuses to look at her, touch her, or love her.
Rejected and humiliated, Salome spirals. She dances for her stepfather, King Herod (oh, you thought this category was new or just popped up for you huh?), and demands one thing in return: John’s head on a silver platter.
And in the opera’s infamous final moment…she kisses the severed head.
Now that you have that, let’s get into it.
It was my first opera, and I’ll admit: I hadn’t done my research. I didn’t know it was a one-act show with no intermission, and I definitely didn’t know I’d be sitting there, starving and squirming, only to leave the theater quietly questioning every time I’ve handed my power away.
At first, I was mostly just… hungry. Literally. No snacks, no intermission, just me trying to stay elegant while my stomach growled beneath the sound of the orchestra.
But as the show unfolded, something else started gnawing at me.
“It was like watching the darkest corners of anxious attachment play out in real time.”
Watching Salome wasn’t like watching some distant, tragic figure spiral out of control—it was like watching the darkest corners of anxious attachment play out in real time. Every glance she threw, every demand she made, every time she tried to force the men around her to give her what she wanted—it felt painfully familiar.
It’s easy to say she wanted John the Baptist because he rejected her, but it felt deeper than that. It wasn’t just rejection. It was the existential pain of being unwanted by the one person you’ve chosen. Of being seen clearly, but not chosen back. And when you live with that ache—whether you call it anxious attachment, abandonment trauma, or being a crash out waiting to happen—you know that kind of pain doesn’t fade quietly. It festers. It demands.
Salome’s answer was to ask for his head, literally. The ultimate use of power. The ultimate act of dark femininity: If I can’t have you, I will destroy you—and I will make you mine anyway.
And even though I wasn’t kissing literal severed heads in my past, I suddenly saw the ways I had tried to do the same. How rejection can turn into obsession. How longing can mutate into control.
@butlikemaybe
One of the things that struck me most was how familiar Salome’s power felt. It wasn’t just her beauty or her ability to command attention. It was the performance of it all. The choreography of being desired.
Salome spends the entire opera being watched, adored, praised, and controlled by the male gaze. She moves like someone who knows how to keep everyone orbiting around her. She knows her power is magnetic—not because of who she is, but because of how the men around her want her.
But when she turns her gaze toward John the Baptist, when she decides he is the one she wants, the whole dynamic flips. He doesn’t play the game. He doesn’t look at her the way everyone else does. He doesn’t even want her, and that rejection slices through her performance like a blade.
Because here’s the thing no one tells you about being “the desired one”: The moment you want something back, your power crumbles. Desire makes you vulnerable.
@iamuhealing
And in that moment, Salome wasn’t just performing anymore. She was choosing. And when her choice didn’t choose her back, the performance became a prison. Suddenly, she wasn’t the one pulling the strings. She was the one unraveling.
That, to me, is the most devastating part of her story—not the violence, not the grotesque ending—but the fact that the moment she stopped performing and actually wanted something real, she was met with rejection. And like so many of us who have lived in that space between power and longing, she didn’t know how to handle that collapse.
She tried to take her power back the only way she knew how: By forcing the story to end on her terms.
“The feminine urge to turn rejection into a mirror and force it to show you something lovable.”
The thing is—Salome’s story isn’t just an old, wild opera. It’s a modern one. We’re all still kissing severed heads. We just don’t recognize them for what they are.
Every time you stalk an ex’s social media, hoping to feel something other than emptiness, you’re kissing a severed head. Every time you post a thirst trap, secretly hoping one person will watch it and regret ghosting you, you’re kissing a severed head. Every time you reread old messages, draft and delete long confessions, or perform for someone who’s already checked out— you’re kneeling at the altar of something dead, trying to make it live again.
We don’t want the person. We want the recognition. We want to force the narrative to end the way we want it to end, even if it means holding onto something lifeless, even if it means tearing ourselves apart in the process.
That’s what I realized, sitting in that opera house with tears welling up: I’ve spent more time than I’d like to admit trying to resurrect dead things. Trying to make people see me. Trying to win back attention I shouldn’t have needed in the first place.
Salome’s story is gross and messy because it holds a mirror up to something most of us would rather not look at—the way rejection warps us, the way power collapses when longing enters the room, the way we beg for crumbs from people who’ve already left the table.
It’s not that Salome wanted John’s head. She wanted him to look at her. And she didn’t care how much blood it took to make that happen.
And if we’re honest, we’ve all done that in some way or another. We’ve all continued to kiss something long after it stopped loving us back.
I have spent years of my life kissing severed heads without even realizing it.
I’ve performed softness and allure for men who didn’t deserve it, hoping they’d finally see me the way I wanted to be seen. I’ve sent the late-night “I miss you” texts or a provocative pic knowing damn well the conversation was already over. I’ve posted stories, curated playlists, and sent thoughtful messages to men who had already emotionally exited the room—clinging to the hope that maybe, if I showed up just right, they’d finally choose me back.
I’ve thrown myself at the feet of unavailable men like it was a sacrament, like their attention was the only thing that could confirm my worth. I’ve crafted entire stories in my head about what their silence meant instead of facing the truth: it meant nothing. It wasn’t personal. It doesn’t require a story. But I made it about me because the ache of rejection felt easier to hold than the emptiness of walking away.
Brandi Web: A 90s crash out Queen iykyk
I know what it feels like to crash tf out. To spiral. To perform. To mistake longing for love and obsession for connection.
And I also know how exhausting it is. How degrading it feels when you finally come up for air and realize you’ve been performing for a severed head—a dead thing. That everything you poured out didn’t bring it back to life, it only emptied you further.
That’s why this opera cracked me open. Because somewhere in the wreckage of Salome’s obsession, I saw the parts of myself I’ve spent the past year trying to retire. The part that used to run after people who made me feel small. The part that mistook rejection as something to fix. The part that wanted so badly to be chosen that I forgot I was the one with the power all along.
@thehealher
It would be easy to write Salome off as just another cautionary tale—a warning about obsession, desire, or unchecked power. But the truth is, her story isn’t ancient. It’s modern. It’s everywhere. it’s me. is it you?
We live in a world that breeds this kind of hunger. A world where attention feels like currency, where rejection feels like a death sentence, where we’re all taught to perform, to curate, to mold ourselves into something lovable even if it means losing ourselves in the process.
We don’t talk enough about how deeply rejection cuts. About how much of our energy is spent trying to resurrect relationships, people, and versions of ourselves that are already gone. About how easy it is to spiral into obsession when you’re aching to be chosen.
That’s why I’m writing this. Not because I think we’re all doomed to repeat Salome’s mistakes, but because I think we need to start seeing the ways we already do.
We need to name it. We need to notice when we’re kissing severed heads and call ourselves back home. Because the real tragedy isn’t the severed head. It’s how many of us are still holding the blade, begging rejection to show us something lovable.
Thank you for letting me turn myself inside out and for making it all the way to the end, you’re my favorite and i love you. Please leave a comment here and say hi or if you wanna spill something anonymously, that works too. this is your space as much as it is mine.
stay raw. stay in the fucking room. love you, bye.
dom xx
Bonus content: Because this isn’t just a story. It’s a feeling. Here’s the soundtrack for when you’re ready to spiral and heal.
