Wrong Frequency

Not enough to burn out. Not enough to vanish.

Artwork By : Shain Parwiz

They talk about the edge.
The ones who hit it.
The ones who burned so hot they just,
stopped.
Left scorch marks.
Became legends.
Built a dark, exclusive club out of intensity. Finality.
A last, undeniable act.

I can’t even find the door.
Maybe my invite got lost in the mail.
That postal worker must’ve read my name and thought,
“Not this one.”

I can’t tune into the right frequency for that kind of ending.
Not enough fire.
Not enough anything.
Just white noise.
Always.

Not enough pain to be tragic.
Not enough spark to burn out.
Just… damp ash,
gathered in the corner
after someone moved me out of the way.

That tracks.
Who needs this?
Who even wants it?

I cling like a worn-out flyer taped to a wall
long after the event's passed.
Stale.
Unreadable.

I stink.
Like rotting bread.
Maggot-filled apples.

Still “alive.”
If that word even means anything.

Really?
Alive?

That’s generous.

I’m just a lie.

---

The wolves still circle.
Teeth gleaming.
Shoulders angled.
Eyes calculating.

Always hungry.
Always draining.

Not that there was much left to drain.

The mask stays on.
By now, it's automated.
A performance.
A mime with a voice.

But underneath?

Underneath, I’m frayed wire.
Sparking.
Buzzing under thin skin.
Just one twitch away
from combustion.

I lost the map years ago.
No idea where me went.
Maybe I was never there.
Just a hollow form,
a poor translation wearing someone else’s voice.
Speech patterns recycled.
Syntax borrowed.
Meaning misplaced.

Sputtering.
Stuttering.
Splattering.

The gauge is broken.
Always has been.
All that’s left
is a coughing engine noise
dying slow.

I used to think about stopping.
Not dramatically.
Just stepping out of the frame.
Quiet.
No more spotlight.
No more sound cues.

Just a place where the performance
could finally end.

But even death
feels like a club with a velvet rope.

And me?

Not cool enough.
Not tragic enough.
Not the right brand of broken.

Just this dull, choking ache.
This failure
to even die right.

Stuck.
Not living.
Not dying.
Just… here.
Serving no purpose.

A shadow sewn into the wrong dimension.
A misprint of a person.
Breathing air I was never meant to metabolize.

And the truth
the one that settles in my chest like lead:

Even oblivion
wouldn’t let me in.

Author’s Note

This one came from the quiet place,
not peaceful, just empty.
The night after I attended a Balvenie whisky launch.
Everyone was smiling.
I was sinking.

It’s not about death.
It’s about disqualification.
About what it means to not even make the roster of ruin.
If you’ve ever felt like a misprint
in a system that runs on silence,
this is yours.

-Shain