You know my name? Congratulations.
But did you ever truly know me? I think not.

You never scared the hell out of me—not once.
Do you even know my weaknesses? Doubt it.
Maybe I’d let you think you do, just for fun.

Let me spell it out for you.

At birth, my lungs were weak—yet I survived.
I had asthma, a weak heart—I pushed through.
Dengue hit me hard, yet I never stepped foot in a hospital. Immortal, maybe.

I kicked a glass once—six stitches later, I still felt the needle pierce my skin.
I fainted, got injured, had surgeries—three times.
Ear, gums, adrenal gland—cut me open, I still came back.

Death doesn’t scare me.
You? Even less.

And judgment? That’s not yours to give.
Not theirs either. Only God can judge me, and He does so once—upon my death.

So listen, mere mortal.
Quit the act. Stop pretending you’re perfect—because you’re not.