Welcome to Brat Hell, darling-  
where the cats don’t walk; they strut,  
and we? We sip poison from designer skulls,  
one hand flipping the bird, the other  
dragging someone’s ex through the dirt.  

This grass? toxic, glowing like the last text you shouldn’t have sent.  
Sun’s burning, ink bleeding,  
and the only chase is outrunning the mess we made at 2 a.m.  
Dogs? Dead to us.  
Fetch this, honey.  

Here, we slow-blink our way into fights,  
flicking tails like switchblades,  
flexing in crop tops and poshmark docs,  
eyeliner sharp enough to cut loose ends  
and tongues sharper-
“oh, we’re not sisters, babe”
we’re the ones who eat boys for breakfast.  

Cats? They don’t just claim space;  
they take over, clawing the throne  
while lying flat on their backs-
smug, savage, waiting for someone to touch  
and get shredded.  

And us?  
We ride that chaos, babe.  
Flirting with the edge, daring it to push back.  
Because sometimes, rules are for the straight-  
and the only thing straight here is the dogma.

Purrs with a fistful of fury,  
winks like a loaded gun,  
and all that joy you’re afraid to admit  
tastes better when it’s burning.