New Year’s in Vegas is a ritual, not a date,
a glittery hostage situation dressed up as fate.
The Strip’s screaming “fresh start” with a bottle-service grin,
like it didn’t just spend twelve months teaching me how to sin.

It’s almost 2026, and the city’s in heat,
not temperature, babe, I mean messy, feral, and cheap.
Tourists arrive like “resolution” is a spell,
then immediately black out and start flirting with hell.

Downtown smells like perfume and poor impulse control,
like someone lit a candle labeled Unhealed for the soul.
There’s a man in sequins arguing with a traffic cone,
and a girl in a sash yelling, “I’M THE MAIN CHARACTER,” alone.

And me, I’m not festive, I’m clinically aware,
I’m a security camera that learned how to swear.
I’m wearing long sleeves, because hiding is my kink,
sunglasses on, because the world can’t have my blink.

Then my phone buzzes, like the devil wants brunch:
“Come out tonight.”
I say, “Bitch, I’m not falling for that ‘just one’ punch.”
They say, “Just one drink.”
I say, “That’s how it unfolds.”
One drink becomes three, back in that cycle, texting “I miss you” in bold.

So I compromise, ’cause I’m soft, and my discipline ran away,
and I walk into the Strip like, “Alright, universe, ruin me in a cute way.”
Devil’s Brunch is glowing, confetti everywhere like a trap,
and everyone’s preaching “growth!” while crying in the street with a vodka in their lap.

“NEW YEAR NEW ME,” they scream, holding shots like a cross,
like accountability died and they sprinkled it with gloss.
A man in a fedora tells his friends he’s “reborn,”
then immediately catcalls a dealer like he’s proud to be worn.

I pass a club line that looks like a drought,
all thirst, no water, just vibes and clout.
The bass is so loud it’s bullying my bones,
and my nervous system files restraining order loans.

Then I see it, and I stop in my tracks,
because the universe loves a ridiculous attack:

A giant balloon arch shaped like a mouth,
with teeth made of glitter, like the city said, “Welcome, now bow.”
And under it, a banner, bold, hot, obscene:
KISS ME LIKE YOU OWE ME A THERAPY FEE.

I whisper, “Wow.”
Vegas whispers, “Yes.”
We lock eyes like enemies in sequined distress.

I duck into a dive bar to hide from the noise,
because my spirit is delicate, but my mouth is a toy.
Inside smells like tequila and unfinished apologies,
like somebody’s regret got a residency, honestly.

The bartender looks up like he’s seen my whole year,
like he can taste my boundaries and still keeps it sincere.
He says, “You look like you just dodged a bad decision.”
I say, “I dodged twelve, but they keep requesting revision.”

He slides me water first, like he knows I’m that bitch,
and I respect that move like a crotch with an itch.
Then he pours a drink that tastes like “fine, I’ll exist,”
and the glass sweats judgment like it’s keeping a list.

Around me, the crowd is the usual suspects:
A bachelorette sobbing. A gambler making threats.
A man explaining crypto like it’s a religion,
and a couple fighting softly like they planned it with precision.

Then the DJ cuts the music, the room gets tense,
like something just shifted, like reality’s dense.
And the TV above the bar flickers twice,
and the bartender mutters, “Oh no,” like it’s advice.

Because the screen changes… no sports, no news,
just a live feed of the Strip, but… wrong hues.
The lights are too bright, the shadows too deep,
like the city is dreaming and refuses to sleep.

And on the screen, dead center, I see my own face,
not me-me, but a version of me with more grace.
Still long sleeves, still shades, still mouth full of fight,
but standing on stage like I finally chose light.

The bartender looks at me like, “Don’t ask.”
I ask anyway, because I’m built for the task.

“What the fuck is that?”
He sighs. “A preview.”
I say, “Of what?”
He says, “Of you… when you stop playing small and start being true.”

I laugh, because that’s insane, and I’m not in the mood,
but the bar gets colder like it’s holding a feud.
The patrons go quiet, their faces go blank,
like they all got replaced by the same haunted rank.

Then somebody behind me whispers my name…
not loud, not creepy, just soft like a flame.

“gabro.”

I turn…

And there’s a woman in a velvet coat,
with eyeliner sharp enough to cut a boat.
She looks like trouble with a library card,
like a saint who learned sarcasm and got real hard.

She says, “Happy almost-2026.”
I say, “Who are you.”
She grins. “I’m the part of the year you didn’t fix.”

I blink, because rude.
She takes my seat,
crosses her legs like she owns my heartbeat.

She says, “You’ve been ‘waiting’ again.”
I say, “I’ve been planning.”
She says, “Baby, you’ve been hiding like fear is commanding.”

I bristle. “I’m not scared.”
She raises one brow.
“Then why does your talent live in ‘someday’ right now?”

I take a sip, and the drink tastes like truth,
and I hate it, because I prefer my denial with a tooth.
The velvet woman leans in, voice low, sweet, mean:
“New Year’s is a mirror. Don’t lie to it, queen.”

I say, “Don’t call me queen.”
She smirks. “Fine. Legend.”
Then she points at the TV like, “There’s your ending.”

On screen, the stage-version of me lifts a mic,
and the crowd goes wild like they finally got life.
The Strip lights flicker like the valley applauds,
and it’s so dramatic it feels like God’s.

I swallow hard. “This is bullshit.”
She nods. “Correct.”
“Vegas isn’t a city, it’s a test with glitter effects.”

Then the bartender, still calm, still wiping a glass,
says, “You can leave right now, or you can let it pass.”
I say, “Let what pass?”
He says, “The moment you stop negotiating with your own damn gift.”

The velvet woman snaps her fingers once, sharp, clean,
and the room shifts again like a new scene.
Suddenly every person in the bar looks… awake,
like they’re not drunk, they’re something you can’t fake.

Their eyes are soft, their faces familiar,
like people I loved, like fear’s greatest killer.
Like teachers, dealers, old friends, old me,
like the versions of me that didn’t get free.

They don’t speak, they don’t judge, they just wait,
and my chest feels tight like it’s carrying weight.

Then somebody starts clapping, slow at first,
like a heartbeat learning to reverse its curse.

And the velvet woman says, “There. That’s your cue.”
I whisper, “For what?”
She says, “For you.”

So I stand up, because apparently I’m brave now,
and my knees are shaking like they filed a complaint, wow.
I walk toward the little stage that smells like spilled gin,
and the mic is on, because the universe loves to win.

I tap it once.
The sound hits my teeth.
I say, “I hate all of you.”
The room laughs, like relief.

Then I start talking in rhyme, because why not,
and I tell my year like a punch in the gut shot:

I tell them about burnout, about fake-ass grace,
about smiling so hard my soul got replaced.
About saying “I’m fine” like it’s currency,
about letting strangers rent space in my nervous system, free.

I roast my own habits, my self-sabotage,
my “I’ll do it tomorrow” emotional mirage.
I drag my own fear like it owes me a check,
and the crowd keeps laughing like “Yes, babe, correct.”

Then I stop, mid-breath, and I don’t know why,
but I speak one line that feels like goodbye:

“2026, I’m done apologizing for existing out loud.”

And the bar erupts, like thunder in sequins, like the universe proud.
The TV flickers, the Strip on screen lights up,
and the velvet woman lifts her drink like, “Shut up.”

The bartender nods like, “Good.”
Like that’s it.
Like I passed the test and didn’t even cheat.

Then the clock hits midnight somewhere far away,
and the whole bar shakes like it heard what I say.
Confetti falls from the ceiling, but it’s not paper, it’s…
tiny little receipts that say “STOP SETTLING FOR THIS.”

I laugh so hard I almost choke,
because even the haunting is doing a joke.

The velvet woman stands, walks past me, slow,
and whispers, “Happy New Year. Now go.”

I blink, and the bar is normal again, loud, dumb, bright,
somebody screaming “WOOO,” somebody starting a fight.
The TV’s back to sports, the patrons are drunk,
the whole spell dissolves like it got punked.

I walk outside, and the Strip is still lying,
but I feel… lighter, like my fear stopped trying.
My phone buzzes once.

One new reminder.

“RECORD THE DAMN THING.”

And for the first time in awhile, I don’t roll my eyes.
I just smile.

Because maybe 2026 isn’t just “new me.”

Maybe it’s just…
me, finally, with teeth.

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒

TIP TO FUND THE ALBUM, LET’S MAKE THIS REAL.

👇

🍒🎰🧃🌈🫦🎲🫦🌈🧃🎰🍒