Tequila for the dead man

“You know what you look like?

Like a skeleton dancing at the festival of the dead.

Yeah that’s perfect, you fucking nailed it sweet cheeks.

I may be from the land of the dead but I’m a well-armed skeleton.

That’s where we’re all from—me, your head maid, those soldiers, everyone.

Sooo Chiquita…

welcome to my graveside.

Leave a bottle of tequila and some marigolds,

and in return I’ll leave a chocolate skull as an offering for your soul…

seeing as you’re fixing to die here,

you little shit.”

⸻

I walk with ghosts on my back like old lovers,

every sin I tried to bury keeps diggin’ up another.

Got a cracked halo hangin’ crooked on my chest,

but mijo, I’m still fightin’, even broken I don’t rest.

Streetlights flicker like candles for the fallen,

I hear my demons whisperin’, tryin’ to call me home again.

But I ain’t done, nah—todavía respiro,

even if my soul’s patched together like a cheap bandido.

⸻

So pour the tequila for the dead man,

leave marigolds for the flaws that made me human.

I’m fallin’, but I’m crawlin’ toward the light still,

chaos in my blood but my corazón fights still.

I’m the sinner with a good man’s hunger,

the thunder in the bones that refuse to go under.

Yeah I’m dyin’ slow,

but I rise slow too—

and I don’t break,

I bloom.

⸻

I’ve tasted the edge of the cliff more than once,

stared down the void like “take your shot, you punk.”

Got a laugh that hides pain and a temper sharp as glass,

but I’d die for my people before I’d ever let ‘em pass.

My soul’s a battlefield painted like Día de Muertos,

bright colors on a heart that’s been shattered where the dirt goes.

But every scar’s a prayer, every bruise is a story,

and I’m chaos with mercy—

a contradiction in glory.

⸻

So pour the tequila for the dead man,

leave marigolds for the flaws that made me human.

I’m fallin’, but I’m crawlin’ toward the light still,

chaos in my blood but my corazón fights still.

I’m the sinner with a good man’s hunger,

the thunder in the bones that refuse to go under.

Yeah I’m dyin’ slow,

but I rise slow too—

and even in the pit,

I bloom.

⸻

If tonight I fall beneath the earth,

light a vela for my worth.

Let the moon judge all I’ve done,

and let the dead say,

“he never ran.”

⸻

Tequila for the dead man—

but I’m not dead yet.

Marigolds for the lost years—

but I ain’t lost every bet.

I’m chaos tryin’ to be holy,

I’m the bruise that still glows slowly,

and Chiquita, if I die tonight,

I’ll haunt the fight

before I ever let go of the light.

’Cause even in my ruin—

I bloom.