Neon Sign in Marfa

 I feel right here—

lit up in my own ruin
above a dead-end street
where West Texas forgets its name
and the night comes down heavy,
black as a shut eye.

My neon spine crackles,
a wounded halo
flickering over gravel and broken glass.
I buzz like a prophecy
that no one ever wanted—
calling in the lonely,
the hunted,
the ones who bleed their truths
only when the whiskey
starts to drag open their ribs.

Inside, country music twangs
with a desperate tremor,
a steel guitar bent
like a witch’s hand
curling around the heart.
The floorboards remember everything—
every confession whispered
on the ballroom floor,
knees bruised,
souls cracked open
under the weight of wanting too much.

The air is soaked in whiskey breath
and old sins warming in the dark.
I glow for them—
all those tired spirits
trying to outrun their shadows,
trying to dance their way
back into their own bodies.

And though the night is thick
with ghosts that never learned to leave,
I hold steady,
casting red light
like a spell across the pavement,
offering myself
as the one constant flame
in a place built on breaking.

Here, in this haunted stretch of nowhere,
I feel right—
a trembling beacon
for the lost and the burning,
shining because
there is nothing else
left to do.