THE ARCHANGEL // FILE 01
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I do not break, I simply bend,
Like steel that dreams beneath the snow.
When storms arrive, I don’t pretend—
I take the hit, then let it go.
[Therapy? Nyet. Just built different.]
[Emotions are for weak walls, not me.]
I was born where silence bites,
Where winter howls and glass won’t thaw.
My lullabies were fist-fought nights,
My cradle carved from brutal law.
[My teddy bear was a brick.]
[It left. Said I was too cold.]
Stay strong, you say? I eat that phrase
With stale black bread and frozen pride.
I drink my strength like cheap rosé,
Then cry in corners, dignified.
[Crying in Slavic is cardio.]
[Call it emotional push-ups.]
Strong ones never ask for aid,
We march through mud and name it home.
Our spine is not for being swayed—
We fold regret like cheap cologne.
[Cologne also vodka-scented.]
[Sex appeal: 98% trauma.]
My spine’s pure iron, soul frostbit,
But still my heart beats like a drum.
Strength is not a noble prize—
It’s just the thing that’s always left.
When all the love and light denies,
You wear your scars like state-issued theft.
[Yes, this is my emotional tax form.]
[Line 3: Deducted Hope.]
So here I am, still on my feet,
Still half in war, half making jokes.
My ribs are tired, my back’s in heat,
But I’m the punchline that still smokes.
[God said: “Don’t be soft.”]
[I replied: “Already failed, but thanks.”]
Each thud a “try me,” every hit
A note in my survival hum.
[Cardiologist said “what the fuck?”]
[I said “beat goes on, tovarisch.”]