not like this

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