Neon Fever in a Concrete Cage

I wear this gold choker like a leash I’ve chosen for myself, a shimmering boundary between who I am and who they want me to be.
The city breathes in heavy smog and electric pulses outside my window, but inside this apartment, the air is thick with something more dangerous: your scent. You are everything I was told to avoid—a chaotic storm of bad habits and brilliant ideas that threaten to unravel my perfectly curated life.
When you touch me, it isn't just skin meeting skin; it’s a collision of two desperate worlds. My heart beats like a trapped bird against the ribs of this silk bodice, screaming for an exit I know doesn't exist.
We are dancing on the edge of a knife in the middle of downtown Tokyo or New York—it doesn't matter which cage we’re in as long as your hand is sliding beneath my shawl.
I want to burn every bridge back to sanity just to feel you breathe against my neck for one more minute. This isn't love; it’s a fever, an addiction that heals me by destroying everything I thought mattered. Let the world collapse around us—as long as we are lost in this golden hour, we have already escaped.

Editor: The Escape Plan