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Do Not Resuscitate (DNR)


What unsettles me most about some people
is not the harm they cause—
but the silence that follows it.


No conviction.
No trembling.
No evidence that a soul was ever stirred.


As if something sacred once lived there…
and quietly left.


What remains is form without fire.
A body that breathes,
but does not feel.


Waking corpses.
Spiritually vacant, 

yet socially skilled—
fluent in imitation,
but foreign to truth.


They move through people like weather—
touching everything,
anchoring nowhere.


I once mistook that emptiness for mystery.


Confused detachment with depth.
Thought restraint was discipline,
when it was really disconnection.


But there was 

no rootedness in him—
only appetite.


An endless hunger dressed as desire.


A man grazing on bodies,
scrolling through souls
like they were disposable moments.


Not searching.
Not building.
Just consuming—
to quiet something unnamed within him.


Unhealed wounds don’t stay still.
They wander.


From bed to bed,
from face to face,
from high to hollow—

rehearsing the same destruction
with different names attached.


His abandonment birthed rejection.
His rejection fed insecurity.
And that insecurity
learned how to wear charm.


He wasn’t evil—
but he was unchecked.


And unchecked brokenness
doesn’t just exist…
it spreads.


He was a spiritual drifter—
mistaking conquest for connection,
mistaking access for intimacy.


And when our paths crossed,
I didn’t see danger.

I saw potential.


That was my mistake.


Because you cannot pour into something
God never called you to revive.


You cannot breathe life
into what has chosen death.


And not everything broken
is seeking restoration.


Some things prefer ruin—
because ruin requires no accountability.


I searched his eyes for light—
but darkness answered me.


And the most terrifying moment 

wasn’t finding it in him…

it was recognizing it
reflecting back in me.


That’s what proximity to emptiness does—
it echoes.

It teaches you to shrink,
to silence your needs,
to translate your worth into tolerance.


And I—
I was fluent in endurance.

Loyal beyond reason.
Steadfast beyond self-preservation.


I wore suffering like a badge of honor,
not realizing
I was slowly abandoning myself.


Each time he said,
“I will never leave you,”
it wasn’t comfort—

it was exposure.


Because staying requires nothing
when there’s no cost to your presence.


And I had made myself
easy to keep
and hard to value.


So I asked God—
not from bitterness,
but from awakening:

What in me feels called
to what cannot hold me?


And the answer wasn’t punishment.
It was revelation.


I was trying to resurrect
what was never alive.


Trying to assign purpose
to what was only a lesson.


Trying to plant roots
in barren ground
and calling it faith.


But faith does not beg.
And love does not deplete.


So I made a decision—
not out of anger,
but alignment.


I signed the DNR order.


Not for him—
but for the version of me
that kept choosing decay
and calling it loyalty.


Because sometimes healing
is not about saving—

it’s about surrendering.


Letting it end.
Letting it fall silent.
Letting what is dead
remain so.


And trusting that God
never asked you
to resurrect 

what He already released.

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