Then a voltage of bass.
Dancing On My Ownglitches through,
voice fed through a harmonizer to make your heart pound.
I spend hours filling notebooks,
trying to put feelings into words.
Crush opens other artists’ wounds,
turns pain into suffering,
then lets it shake a room at 128 BPM.
Celie whines. “Bitch, one night. Just one night alone with him.”
She wants to be ruined by a stranger
like it’s romantic.
“Yeah, one night’ll fuckin’ do it,” I mutter.
“Just don’t ask what it costs.”
She thinks it's a joke.
I let her believe it is.
She doesn't know I paid for one night
with my whole goddamn chest.
She's in her own little world when she says,
“Nah. I’m tellin’ you—every girl’s got one.
“The Holy Grail. The man.The man.”
Her eyes go wide, whole face testifying. “The one you’d ruin a twenty-year relationship for. The one you’d throw out your self-worth, common sense, and dignity just to kiss his neck once. The obsession. The fantasy. The once-in-a-lifetime, ruin-your-life-but-you-don’t-care man.The Holy Grail.”
She smirks, eyes hazy.
“Teddy Vale’s yours. DJ Crush is mine.
“We’re both sick in the head, babe.
“God knew better than to let us have them.”
She's right. I’d absolutely go feral for a night with Teddy Vale.
All velvet throat, funeral eyes.
Slow-burn seduction in a vintage cut.
But then?—
Pleading navy eyes,
