She’s the girl who talks to needles slow,
and every vein is a secret she’ll know.
So if you see her smile too wide–
you’re already inside.
She keeps your breath in tiny jars,
labels them with dates and scars.
And when you’re gone, she doesn’t cry–
she just files your veins and lets you die.
Her closet’s full of ribs and string,
knee bones cleaned and finger rings.
She says she’s building something pure,
a patient made of what we endured.
She’s building a body from what’s left of us,
threading shame through tendons and trust.
We called her sick. We called her kind.
But she’s the god we left behind.
And now we serve, and now we crawl–
she doesn’t need the staff at all.
She’s back again with that silver grin,
sleeves rolled high to show the sin.
No more hiding under beds or rules–
she’s writing scripture with medical tools.
The syringes clink like a lullaby,
filled with things that make you cry.
She taps the air like she taps your thoughts,
and draws you clean in pressure knots.
Her needles never sleep, they twitch in dreams,
dancing through your IV streams.
She hums in dosage, bleeds in code,
and every stitch she sews explodes.
You’ll wake up different.
You’ll wake up hers.