Ain’t many miles left.
You can feel it in the steering wheel,
in the way the road hums like it’s trying
to warn you of something it’s too tired to say twice.
More miles than I deserve, less than I hoped—
that’s the ledger of it.
A balance sheet written in overdue notices and missed exits.
There’s a curve coming up—
the kind folks whisper about like it’s a ghost
or a prophecy
or a dare.
Dead Man’s Curve.
Everyone acts surprised that it kills people
as if it were designed for anything else.
Pop’s voice keeps echoing in the cavities of my skull,
the way old voices do
when the night gets thin.
“better raise hell while you can, son.
The grave’s quiet enough for the both of us.”
He meant it as advice.
I took it as permission.
So yeah—
half a gallon of whiskey on the passenger seat
like a co-pilot that never argues,
cocaine tucked in the glovebox
like a promise
or a threat
or a key to a door I keep kicking open instead.
If I do burn— and I am sure I will-
let it be quick enough not to register
on whatever nerves I have left.
And that preacher—
God bless his certainty—
told me I was made
in Someone’s image.
Sculpted, deliberate.
A reflection of divinity.
I’ve spent my life wondering
if God looked at the finished product
and just… shrugged,
like a carpenter realizing the table’s crooked
but deciding it holds plates well enough
And he'll just make a better one next
I was born with nothing.
Not in the romantic sense—
not the “self-made man” myth people love to swallow—
but in the way an empty room echoes
before It gets filled with everyone's shit.
And every time I’ve self-destructed,
everyone acts surprised,
as if that wasn’t the shape in which I arrived,
As if entropy isn’t the most honest thing about me.
Ain’t many miles now.
You can count them like heartbeats
if you listen close.
Road winding but running out,
night thickening,
needle climbing—
redline feels like confession.
Feels like the first true thing I’ve said in years.
The preacher’s words again,
like a bad sermon stuck on repeat.
Made in His image. Hardly
But If that’s true,
either He’s got a dark sense of humor
or his sense of self-worth is as fucked up as mine
And Heaven—
I imagine it as a trophy case,
polished, curated,
where He puts the ones that turned out
how He meant.
But Hell—
that feels more like a storage closet,
where He shoves the mistakes
He doesn’t want guests to see.
I know which room has my name on it.
And if He’s listening now—
and He might be,
because endings attract attention—
I’d like to offer one last sentiment,
from the depth of everything He forgot to fix in me:
Fuck off and thanks anyway
