←

Saint Dirty Face

Tag: #MidnightConfessions

  • You Talk the Talk, But I Actually Walk the Walk

    Robert

    I break the rules you pray for.

    I don’t run from the devil—

    we just share the same highway.

    Different destinations.

    Same midnight asphalt.

    Same ghosts riding shotgun.

    You kneel in clean light, begging for rescue.

    I walk in shadow, making peace with the fact

    that salvation doesn’t always look holy.

    Some of us don’t get angels.

    We get endurance.

    We get scars.

    We get the long road that doesn’t care if you’re righteous—

    only if you’re real.

    I don’t flirt with evil.

    I just stopped pretending it doesn’t exist.

    I’ve buried friends.

    I’ve held hands as life drained out.

    I’ve stared at ceilings wondering if God was buffering.

    Your faith wears pressed suits.

    Mine smells like smoke and hospital antiseptic.

    Yours begs for safety.

    Mine asks for strength.

    You chose comfort.

    I chose the road.

    You built fences.

    I learned how to walk through fire

    without asking for permission.

    I don’t need to be saved.

    I need to be true.

    I break the rules you pray for—

    not because I’m lost…

    but because I found myself

    where fear won’t go.

    Same highway.

    Different fire.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.™

  • I Flirt with Danger Like It’s My Next of Kin

    Robert

    I flirt with danger like it’s my next of kin.

    I’ve been wild since birth.

    Not loud.

    Not reckless-for-the-applause.

    The quiet kind of wild that doesn’t run from fire—

    it learns its language.

    But hear me:

    Danger doesn’t love you back.

    It just borrows your heartbeat

    and forgets your name.

    I used to think the edge made me holy.

    That scars were proof of depth.

    That chaos meant I was chosen for something more.

    Truth?

    Some of us confuse adrenaline with purpose.

    We mistake the cliff for a calling.

    I’ve stood in rooms where the air tasted like regret.

    I’ve shaken hands with versions of myself

    that never made it home.

    And every time I walked away,

    something stayed behind.

    There’s a cost to dancing with the dark—

    it always wants a down payment.

    I don’t glamorize the flame anymore.

    I respect it.

    Because fire doesn’t ask who you are

    before it decides what you’ll lose.

    Still… I won’t lie.

    There is a pull.

    A hunger.

    A whisper that says you were never built for the quiet.

    But here’s the warning carved into bone:

    If you flirt with danger,

    do it with your eyes open.

    Know when to leave.

    Know when to live.

    Because the edge isn’t a home—

    it’s a border.

    And some never make it back across.

    — Saint Dirty Face™

    Stay Dirty. Stay Dangerous.™

    (But stay alive.)