Stuntin’ On The Stairwell

One foot on the ledge,
the other on last night’s lie.
Elevator’s out—again.
So I climb ten flights of busted pride
and bruised memory.
No destination. Just momentum.

Pause.

Mirror’s cracked in the stairwell light.
Still shows me.
Bleeding confidence and busted logic.
My reflection got a nosebleed
from swinging on my better judgment.

I ain’t won.
But I dared to show up swinging.
And I looked good missing.

Call it stairwell scripture:
where echoes preach in lowercase sermons,
and regret sticks like smoke to every wall.
The graffiti says “You’re Not Alone”
—but somebody scraped out the “Not”
like they meant it.

I don’t stunt for cameras.
I stunt here
because proving myself got me nowhere,
and giving up ain’t in the blood.

Ask my kicks:
leather split, sole peeling like it’s got something to say.
Ask the laces:
never tied, just tense enough to run.

Third floor smells like broken plans and blunt ash.
Sixth hums with gospel—
somebody’s mama spinning vinyl
like it can resurrect the week.
Seventh’s where I kissed her so hard
I forgot who I was walking toward.

Now I only move up.
Even if gravity’s winning.

Kid Danger’s in my ear—
bandana flapping like a dare.
Says, “We built this stairwell outta exit wounds
and loud exits. Climb it like you lit the match.”

Scott’s scribbling again,
writing his breakdowns in cursive.
Says, “Don’t sleep on cracked glass.
It still catches sunlight if you angle it right.”

Greg exhales.
Adjusts his coat like it’s armor.
Rolls his shoulders like memory weighs forty pounds.
He don’t say much.
But he don’t bend.

Me?
I’m all three.
The whisper, the wildfire, and the man in the mirror
doing pushups with guilt on his spine.

I stunt here
not for followers—
but ‘cause this is where I felt the climb.
Where falling felt holy.
Where every breath felt like it cost something.

Each step’s a psalm.
Each landing’s a ghost I left behind.
Each floor’s a verse
still bleeding in the margins of who I am.

So if you see me—
half-lit in flickering fluorescents,
posted like I own the air—

just know:
I ain’t broken.
I’m just stuntin’ on the stairwell
till something opens.

Or I kick it in.