Do not resuscitate.

When my eyes finally close
dont pry them open again
in a small white room
where the windows don’t open
and the air smells like plastic hope.

If I stop breathing,
let the only bells I hear
be the ones at the finish line,
not the alarms of machines
begging my heart to clock back in.

Because tell me,
what life am I returning to?

The kind where morning
is just an alarm clock
disguised as purpose?

where we rise not with the sun
but with the understanding
that survival
has a price tag.

Nine hours sold.
Eight hours spent dreaming of escape.
Five minutes asking
if this is really living?

Do not resuscitate.

Not into a world
that taught me the word “indivisible”
before it taught me
who was still being divided.

Not into a country
where I could recite
“liberty and justice for all”
before I even understood

that “justice for all”
was really just justice
for them.

Because somewhere between
hand on heart
and eyes on the flag,

someone quietly erased
the word “all”
and replaced it with
an asterisk.

Terms and conditions apply.

Not into a country
that taught me the pledge
before it taught me the price.

The price of breathing here.

The price of eating here.

The price of simply
continuing to exist.

Because they told us
life was a gift,
but never mentioned
the cost of living.

Because somewhere between
my first breath
and soon to be
my first paycheck

someone replaced the sky
with billboards.

Huge ones.

Bright enough
to blind you from the truth behind them.

They say things like:

“Make America Great Again.”

But if you step close enough,
if you look behind the sign,
you’ll see the scaffolding

holding up the illusion.

You’ll see history
still bleeding through the paint.

You’ll see hands
that built empires
but never learned
how to hold a conscience.

Do not resuscitate.

Not into a world
where hunger lives in the eyes
of people who already own everything.

Where stomachs grow larger
yet souls
remain empty.

Where the loudest voices
are the ones
afraid of losing power
they were never meant to keep.

And maybe the doctors will panic.
Maybe they’ll shout my name
and press down on my chest
trying to restart something
that was already exhausted.

But listen carefully.

The problem was never
my heart.

It was the world
it was asked to beat inside of.

So if the moment comes,

if the line goes flat,
if the room fills with that long
unbroken tone,

Just write it clearly
At the bottom of the chart:

Do. Not. Resuscitate.

Artist: Brielle Brandon         Artist Age: 15

Artist State: Guam    Artist Country: Guam

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