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Retro vibe.

Retro vibe.

Retro vibe.

Come, friends.

Don’t ask why.

Tonight the room decides who we are.

The door is locked from the inside.

Excuses are prepared for the outside.

If they ask, say you were celebrating

someone else’s life

while quietly escaping your own.

Music plays low

not because it’s weak

but because it knows patience.

My flow isn’t sharp,

it doesn’t rush.

Still, my face carries a glow

like I’ve forgiven myself

for not being impressive.

I dance inward.

No witnesses.

Compared to the world,

I remain comfortably strange.

A hairbrush becomes a microphone.

Confidence borrows my hands.

I look into the mirror

and the mirror doesn’t laugh.

It says,

“You’re believable.”

Bass taps the floor.

Dim. Dim.

Juice sweats in my palm.

My feet remember joy

before responsibility learned my name.

A voice from another room says,

“Come inside.”

I reply, calmly,

“Not tonight.”

Tonight I choose myself

without explanation.

The wig is bad.

The dream is not.

Even badly dressed,

I shine.

Come closer, friends.

This room is enough.

Lights off.

Disco on.

If you’re the hero of your story,

fine.

Tonight,

I’m the author of my own quiet chaos.