I don’t give a flying fuck about your ceiling,
I’m moonroof open, pedal through the red,
Past every voice that said “stay kneeling.”
I’m kerosene mornings, napalm nights,
Burning the letters you never sent,
Your sorrys rot on the runway lights—
I’m already jet-engine bent.
Middle finger subtle as a siren,
Echoes in the rear-view, small and shrinking,
Love was a noose; I’m the silver linin’
Cutting loose, inked in what I’m thinking.