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45 to Zero

The Christian Satanist

The car decided the rest for me. One second, motion. The next, a rearrangement.
Physics and mercy doing the math I could not.
They call it an accident. I call it an interruption. A hand pressed flat against the spinning world and said: here. Stop here. Not your time to vanish — your time to wake up.
I have been afraid of many things. Heights. Loss. The silence after someone leaves. But I was not afraid in the crash.
That's what stays with me. The moment my hands left the wheel I felt something ancient and calm take over — not panic, not terror, just the deep, unbothered knowing that whatever comes next has already been written.
I walked out of that wreck a different document. Same body. New text.
Every day since then I have known what zero tastes like.
And I choose forty-five. The speed of the living. The speed of someone who still has somewhere to be.
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Your Weird, Your Wounds, Your Why

68 pages. 5 movements. Poetry from the edge of shadow and revelation.
What you feel is not a flaw. It's a fire.

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