Verse 1 Every morning starts the same: a cold can, a cracked-open hiss, sugar and sting down a throat that never rests. She drinks Red Bull like a lock on the night, because sleep is not rest anymore. Sleep is the hallway where the nightmares wait. Sleep is the body that wakes and cannot move. So she stays upright. She stays lit. She stays anything but gone. Chorus 1 She drinks it so she doesn’t have to sleep. She knows what comes if she closes her eyes: the dreams that hunt her, the paralysis that pins her to the bed while something stands in the dark and she cannot scream. Another can. Another hour stolen from the night. But how long will her heart keep saying yes to all this Red Bull? How long before the thing that keeps her awake is the thing that takes her first? Verse 2 The cans pile up like little silver graves on the desk, on the floor, on the nightstand she never uses. Her hands shake when the fizz is gone. Her jaw aches from staying clenched. She tells herself this is survival, not a slow unmaking. Because the alternative is worse: the weight on her chest, the voice in the corner, the seconds that last for years while her eyes are open and her body is a cage. Awake is ugly. Asleep is terror. She chose ugly. Every single day. Chorus 2 She drinks it so she doesn’t have to sleep. She would rather burn through the daylight than fall into that black room again. Nightmares know her name. Sleep paralysis knows her address. Red Bull is the only door she still knows how to shut. Another can. Another night without a bed. But how long will her heart keep running on sugar, fear, and stubbornness? How long before it stops answering the girl who is only trying not to dream? Verse 3 Sometimes, just before dawn, her pulse stumbles like a warning. A skip. A flutter. A tightness she pretends is nothing. She presses two fingers to her throat and laughs a laugh that isn’t funny. “Not yet,” she whispers to her own blood. “You don’t get to quit before the nightmares do.” Then she opens one more can because the sky is getting pale and pale means the dark is close enough to reach for her if she blinks too long. Bridge She is not living. She is postponing sleep. She is bargaining with a heart that was never built for this kind of war: caffeine versus terror, can versus night, one tired organ trying to outlast both. (mhm) Chorus 3 She drinks Red Bull every day so she doesn’t have to sleep. She knows the nightmares are patient. She knows the paralysis is waiting in the sheets. So she stays awake until awake feels like dying slower. Another can. Another dawn she didn’t earn, only survived. How long will her heart keep up with all this Red Bull? How long can a body run from a bed that feels like a grave before the running becomes the grave instead? Outro The empty cans don’t protect her. They only buy her minutes. And somewhere behind her ribs a tired heart keeps asking the same question she is too afraid to answer: If you never sleep… what’s left of you when the last can is gone? (ahaaaa)
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