Annie, are you OK?
Moonwalks through the shattered glass, spotlight bleeds across the floor.
Heartbeats sync with bassline knives—he came in through the window,
white fedora tipping like a guillotine.
No blood on the vinyl, just glitter guilt;
every heel-click’s a verdict, every “ow!” a gavel crack.
She’s smooth, she’s struck, she’s silent—
a silhouette in sequins, dangling from the moon’s one glove.
Annie, are you OK?
The city screams in falsetto, high enough to shatter alibis.