I wish I could write poetry, but all I can do is drip my soul out in little drops on the page.
I stand in front of the mirror,
same cracked bastard staring back,
eyes half regret, half fire,
and I say it again,
“Don’t give up this time, mother fucker.”
Not because it sounds poetic,
not because I believe in mantras,
but because it’s true.
If I give up, I die.
Simple logic.
I’ve quit before.
Jobs.
Women.
Myself.
I’ve let the rot creep in
like it was welcome.
Opened the door, poured it a drink.
But this?
This isn’t heartbreak or hangover.
This is the final round
and I don’t get to tap out.
So I slap my own reflection.
Tell him,
“Breathe, fight, scream, fuck, whatever.
Just don’t fucking quit.”
Because giving up is an invitation.
And death?
That fucker doesn’t RSVP.
He just shows up.
And I’m not ready
to pour him a drink yet.
Read this on Substack where it first appeared — if you’re into that sort of thing.
