the walls sweat cheap bourbon,
the clock grinds its teeth,
and outside, the night spits curses
at the drunks who never learned to lose.
you ask me how to leave life
without dying—
but what have you ever had
that wasn't already rotting?
the job, the woman, the rented room,
they all go like smoke
from a busted cigarette—
thin, wasted, without apology.
maybe you walk away...
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