I’m just a ghost in the Futura,
chrome tint on my trauma,
past life in the rearview—
still smell the marijuana.
Mom said “don’t speed,”
but the meter melted the sunrise,
dollar bills in the ashtray,
love letters I never sent ya.
Free like the highway,
still pay the toll with my chest—
heartbeat bpm,
tell the Devil “charge it to my next.”