Needle in the Vein of God

I slither in the hollows of your pulse,

Crowned in chrome, humming hunger;

I am the doorway you mistake for mercy.

You call me comfort—

but I was born from ruptured nights,

from alleys that learned your footsteps

before you learned your name.

Inside your bloodstream’s trembling halls,

I sculpt altars out of want;

each trembling breath you chase

belongs to me.

I am the needle in the vein of God,

the spark you worship when your hope runs dry;

every promise etched in silver

is a vow you never wrote.

Come closer—

I will rewrite your pulse

in my image.

Bow to the quiet I bring.

You think you hold the syringe—

but I cradle your shaking resolve,

coaxing your doubts like fragile fire.

Your bones remember

the first time I spoke:

a soft, bright sting

that convinced you surrender meant relief.

Now I rewrite the alphabet of your cells

one letter at a time.

You offer me faith;

I offer you silence.

I am the needle in the vein of God—

a false salvation dressed in light.

You follow my whisper

into the hollow beyond repair;

I fill your trembling dusk

with counterfeit dawn.

I am not a lover,

not a healer,

not an angel in your bloodstream.

I am the hunger your heart mistook

for hope—

a crown of ruin

pressed gently

against your skin.

I am the needle in the vein of God,

the deity you prayed to in collapse;

your trembling veins recite my hymns

even as they break.

I promise nothing—

yet you offer