Wake up, skin sticky with last night’s sin,
neon vomit on the windowpane,
pills like confetti in the ashtray,
heartbeat banging off-beat to the bruise-blue day.
I taste your name, bitter metal on my tongue,
text you “I’m alive—sort of,” then delete it twice;
the sun’s a narc, leaking through blinds like a snitch.
I let the bassline stitch the cracks in my skull,
scream the hook till the mirror forgets who I am—
still dead last, still speeding, still woke.