Billie Jean’s shadow twirls beneath the moonlit tile,
her heels click lies that echo down the corridor of denial.
She says the kid is mine, but the mirror cracks at the claim,
white glove trembling like a guilty star that won’t sign its name.
Every bassline heartbeat knocks a gavel in my chest,
court of dance-floor justice where the truth’s forever suppressed.
So I spin on the edge of the danger she weaves,
a glittering ghost in a thriller that never leaves.