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