Blue Lights

He’s got one hand on the wheel, hundred-twenty as we fly,

Neon dripping off his knuckles like a warning in the sky.

My pulse is shaking in my throat, there’s blood I can’t explain,

And my friend’s in the backseat whispering my name.

Blue lights blooming in the mirror, like they’re hunting down my sins,

Every siren is a secret screaming underneath my skin.

I’m running from a truth that’s catching up to me,

Private jet waiting on the tarmac just to set me free.

And he says, “Baby, hold on,” like he can drive me out alive—

But I’m haunted by the moment I may never survive.

He laughs like chaos is a game, but his jaw is tight with fear,

He keeps saying he’s got me, but I’m drowning in the smear.

Red fingerprints across my shirt—mistakes I can’t outrun,

Every mile is a countdown till the night comes undone.

Blue lights blooming in the mirror, painting truth across my face,

If they catch me, if they catch us—will he vanish without trace?

I’m running from a truth that’s catching up to me,

Private jet waiting on the runway just to set me free.

And he says, “Baby, hold on,” like he can drive me out alive—

But I’m haunted by the moment I may never survive.

Maybe freedom’s just a ghost wearing someone else’s skin,

Maybe I’m the kind of girl who burns the world she’s standing in.

If I make it to the airstrip, will the darkness let me be?

Or will all of this unravel in the seconds before I leave?

I’m running from a truth that’s catching up to me,

Private jet waiting on the runway just to set me free.

And he says, “Baby, hold on,” like he can drive me out alive—

But I’m haunted by the moment I may never survive.

We skid up to the ladder as the engines start to roar,

My friend’s already crying while he’s shoving us aboard.

I feel the heat of flashing lights crawling up the runway’s edge—

But the cabin door slams shut before the blue can cross the ledge.

He grabs my hand and whispers, “We’re not ghosts if we still breathe,”

But my heartbeat’s beating verdicts I can’t take with me when we leave.

I’m running from a truth that’s gnawing into me,

Private jet engines humming like they’re calling out to me.

And he says, “Baby, trust me,” but the night’s still on my spine—

I’m a wildfire in the passenger seat, running out of time.