[Intro — Sparse Sub-Bass, Late-Night Keys]
Vinyl crackle, streetlight breath,
Hum of late-night traffic — holds my secret close.
Ashtray of the past — I press it down, press it flat,
Low reverb whisper, heartbeat like a trap.
[Verse 1]
I fold my truth into cigarette butts and coffee cups,
Tell myself mercy lives in small interruptions.
Mirrors hold the shape of nights I didn’t say a word,
Window fogs like vows that never learned to burn.
I hide my tremor in the hum of the 2 AM train,
Tuck my softness under collars soaked with rain.
Lipstick on a glass — a map I don’t explain,
I navigate the quiet where the loudest things remain.
[Pre-Chorus]
Maturity's a manicure — clipped edges, steady hands,
Bruises catalogued in folders I don’t brand.
I move like low tide — careful, graceful, slightly wild,
Soft armor, quiet bones — the language of my style.
[Chorus — Tight, Percussive, Cinematic]
You know my style.
You know my style.
Neon stitches on my skin — I survive, cinematic and wild.
You know my style.
You know my style.
Sub-bass cradle — I arrive, I revive, I smile.
[Verse 2]
Use my body like a remedy — warm, loud, raw,
Salt on skin, vinyl sheets, slow exhale, sudden thaw.
Hands read the map I never spoke: sighs, punctuation,
Pleasure as passage — precise, messy, then translation.
I trade sterile silence for the way your hands undo knots,
Replace clinical loneliness with warmth and plotted thoughts.
Every touch, a midnight headline in my chest,
Each moan a sentence where my truths come out, confessed.
[Pre-Chorus — Off-Beat Delivery]
Lessons folded in the sleeve of a shirt I never wore,
Tears behind the curtain, keys and clothes on the floor.
Rhythm of recovery — syncopate, collide, compile,
Quiet thunder in my ribs — this is my style.
[Chorus — Sharper, String Swell Behind]
You know my style.
You know my style.
Neon stitches on my skin — I survive, cinematic and wild.
You know my style.
You know my style.
Low-lit healing — midnight vows, renegade smile.
[Bridge — Dreamy Keys, Then Cut to Staccato]
Off-beat steps — bass like a spine,
Weight in my chest — but I move fine.
Float and fall, then anchor to the floor,
I’m steady, I’m fractured, I’m something more.
[Spoken/Rap Break — Hard-Hitting, Staccato]
Listen. Cut. Breathe.
Hard lines — I don’t need reprieve.
Fists open — let it bleed. Quiet rust turns to steel.
I’m not fragile — I’m forged.
This is not longing — this is scarred.
[Chorus — Final, Cinematic Big]
You know my style.
You know my style.
Neon stitches on my skin — I survive, cinematic and wild.
You know my style.
You know my style.
Healing in the darkness — I wear my stitches with a smile.
[Outro — Intimate Double-Tracked Vocal]
Silent no more — I let the sub-bass say the things I hide,
Sex and soul as language — midnight holy, messy, dignified.
Ashtray of the past — blunt lit, then crushed beneath my heel,
Neon stitches keep glowing — they tell you what is real.
You know my style.
You know my style.
