I've been driving

for twelve hours

aimlessly, and alone,

despite knowing or caring

that I didn't have enough gas

to run away from home

or even enough

to bring me back.

So now, running on empty,

and 800 odd miles away from home

with fifty dollars

crumpled up in my pocket,

grandpa's pistol in the glove box,

and enough alcohol on my breath

to get my locked up

for a long, long time...

I decide it's best to stop for the night

or forever.

So long story short

the only room I could find

for $50

is a fantasy suite

in a sleezy motel

out in the middle of

butt-fuck nowhere.

So with an empty tank in the parking lot

and an empty tank in my soul

I check in

alone,

and lay on the filthy, heart-shaped mattress

suspended and swinging above the floor

by chains

and I stare at my pathetic reflection

in the mirrors on the ceiling

while inhaling the residual perfume of nicotine

from the lungs of lovers

and dead hookers.

There's no tip-toeing around this

so I’ll just say it

because it's not like anyone's listening –

I fucking hate myself.

I haven't even a scrap of love left

for this person I've become,

and all the little crumbs

of self-compassion

have been swallowed by freeway rats

who're now laying dead

with broken throats

in this trap called life.

While I was writing just now

I began to think of this poem

as my suicide note

that only the slut

at the front desk will read...

So while I began searching my soul

for some profound quote about death

I remembered

that I forgot grandpa's pistol in the car,

and now I think

that this is the story of my life.

And the plot, all summed up,

is probably something

like this;

“either someone up there is looking out for me

or someone down there wants me to suffer.”

I'm not sure which one it is,

but maybe, just like my favorite stories,

there’s some room

for interpretation.

It just seems like everything

is such a goddamn contradiction

especially tonight

sitting alone in the “Cupid's Arrow” suite

with what I'm almost sure

is a bloodstain on the carpet.

Tonight I just wish

that the little diaper wearing motherfucker

would break in with a .22

point it to my chest

and blow open my heart, too.

But he won't

he ain't real,

nothing is as far as I’m concerned,

because for all I know

this soul that burns with words inside my chest

could be nothing more

than just the product of a billion years

of evolution.

But right now I don't give a fuck

what is

or what isn't

because I do know one thing

for damn sure –

and it's that I won't be killing myself tonight,

and this twisted little novel of mine

will keep on going,

for a hundred more chapters

or for half of a page...

but I don't care either way

as long as I can dilute my blood with

this whiskey

and close my eyes

for the night.