you’re bleeding to death
in the backseat of a car
and your father’s voice
whirls through the back
of your mind saying that gutshot
is the worst way to go,
and you want to tell him that
a stab wound isn’t much better
but you haven’t had his number
in years, and there’s blood
soaking into the worn leather of
the jacket he gave you, and even
as a grown man you’re afraid of
what he’ll do to you for
ruining it
he ruined you first, though,
so fair’s fair, as far as
you’re concerned
hell, the car isn’t yours, either
and the thick-soled boots on
your tired feet were bought with
someone else’s twenty bucks
there’s a growing stain on the
front of the flannel shirt a
wild pirate with kind eyes
gave you what feels like a
lifetime ago now
pearl buttons turned to red,
and the bile in your mouth mixes
with regret
no chasers to be had this time,
no one to call you back,
to ask if you’re okay
there’s blood under your nails,
polish chipped off by now,
but you still remember how gentle
her hands were when
brushing on the colors
and were you a bad son,
you ask yourself,
delirious and alone and scared
and no, you weren’t
you were just a kid
you were just a
fuckin’ kid
but this doesn’t have to be
your curtain call
there are much better places
than a lonely stretch of highway
in the middle of an even lonelier desert
to snuff out the candle
you’ve been burning
at both ends for so
goddamned long, after all
staunch the blood in any way
you know how
it doesn’t have to end this way
it doesn’t have to end this way