no pulse, still breathing

My veins still twitch when the night gets too quiet, static crawling through my bloodstream like insects beneath stained glass

No pulse on the monitor, still breathing like a cursed machine refusing shutdown

Doctors looked at me sideways, whispering numbers and probabilities while my spirit floated near fluorescent heavens

I heard my mother crying through walls thin as confession booths, every sob sounding like bells before execution

Motherfucker I survived things that should’ve buried me beside forgotten addicts and broken prophets

I kissed overdose on the forehead then walked away laughing with blood on my teeth

Tell me why death keeps flirting but never commits

Tell me why survival feels more violent than dying ever could

Bitch my body became an abandoned cathedral

Cracked ribs like shattered windows letting cold angels enter uninvited

My heartbeat dragging chains through hallways of regret

My lungs coughing black clouds thick enough to baptize entire cities in sorrow

There’s a motel room somewhere still smelling like sweat, pills, and burnt scripture

A whore with silver eyeliner probably still remembers how my hands shook after midnight

She traced crosses on my chest while calling me beautiful in languages made from loneliness

Her perfume smelled like funerals hidden inside luxury boutiques

No pulse

Still breathing

Like Lazarus waking up pissed off at heaven

Like a motherfucker dragged back into existence before the credits finished rolling

I walked through parties feeling transparent

Everybody dancing like they weren’t one bad phone call away from collapse

Rich kids snorting powdered confidence from bathroom counters

Pretty girls selling affection with eyes emptier than church donation boxes

And there I stood

Heart malfunctioning beneath designer fabric

Soul stitched together with nicotine and paranoia

Trying to smile without exposing the apocalypse behind my teeth

Sometimes I think God left fingerprints inside my suffering

Tiny clues hidden beneath trauma like scripture hidden in metaphors

Maybe every scar is just theology carved into flesh

Maybe pain is the only sermon people truly remember

I saw an ambulance reflected in puddles after rain

Red lights moving like demons through wet asphalt

My reflection looked dead already

Eyes hollow as apartment buildings after eviction

Fuck I remember collapsing alone

Floor cold enough to feel holy

Mouth tasting metallic like communion wafers dipped in battery acid

Phone buzzing beside me with messages from people who only loved the version of me that entertained them

Nobody wants the real disaster

Nobody wants the ugly resurrection

They only love the performance

The aesthetic sadness

The poetic self destruction with clean lighting and expensive captions

But surviving is disgusting

Surviving means mucus and panic attacks

Sweaty sheets and hallucinations at 4 AM

Surviving means hearing your own thoughts sharpen knives in dark rooms

Still breathing

Still fucking breathing

Even after every bridge inside me caught fire

Even after my trust got crucified in public squares by people calling it character development

My ex said I carried darkness too comfortably

Like a king wearing mourning robes tailored from childhood trauma

She kissed my neck while stealing pieces of my sanity with acrylic nails

Then vanished into crowds like smoke escaping a burning sanctuary

Now every relationship feels temporary as hotel soap

Everybody promising forever with expiration dates hidden beneath their tongues

Everybody praying for loyalty while cheating emotionally behind glowing screens

Everybody lonely enough to fake intimacy for a few hours of warmth

I keep hearing phantom heartbeats in silence

Like ghosts tapping drums beneath floorboards

Like dead versions of myself begging for recognition

Like the universe reminding me survival always leaves fingerprints on the soul

No pulse

Still breathing

That’s the curse right there

Not dead enough to escape

Not alive enough to feel saved

So I wander through neon nights carrying invisible coffins on my shoulders

Every conversation feeling rehearsed

Every compliment sounding purchased

Every sunrise looking beautiful enough to make me hate myself for wanting another tomorrow

And somewhere beneath the noise

Beneath the sex and substances and spiritual exhaustion

There’s still a child inside me

Hands folded beside imaginary altars

Asking heaven why broken people gotta stay alive so long