PXTXS plunges us straight into a raw, neon-lit after-party where heartbreak meets excess. The narrator staggers through the night—eyes bloodshot, nose dusted white—trying to drown the memory of a lost love with booze, drugs, and fleeting hookups. Every frantic chorus is a confession: “Yo no tengo la culpa… estoy curando el vacío que dejaron tus besos.” He insists the chaos is not his fault; it is all a desperate DIY remedy for the void her goodbye created.
Behind the swagger and explicit language lies a familiar story. Blaming the breakup, he spirals into self-destruction, fights with the police, and surrounds himself with “putas,” yet her image keeps haunting him. Fuerza Regida turns this toxic cocktail of guilt, anger, and longing into an addictive corrido-trap anthem—reminding us that sometimes the loudest parties hide the loneliest hearts.