Blonde Dynamite

She grips the wheel like a gunfighter, Knuckles white, veins humming with static. Lipstick smeared crimson across a midnight smile, She’s half siren, half streetlight ghost— An invitation you’ll regret answering.

The car rumbles beneath her, feral and restless, Wheels rolling over broken promises And tire tracks of the damned. Through the cracked window, Orange flares split the night like a bad omen, The kind you ignore when you’re already too far gone.

She doesn’t glance back. Her hair wild as static, Eyes fixed forward, chasing shadows On a road that doesn’t exist.