Drinking a shot of the bar’s best whiskey,
sitting next to a good looking woman.
I reach into my pocket,
I feel her,
a Bowie knife,
8 inches of mayhem,
disaster forged in steel.
I have no doubt in my mind the knife will be brandished.
To either carve up some beautiful face,
or carve my suicide note into the tabletop
which sits unused in the darkened corner of the room.
The forsaken love,
I hide the wounds.
The killing fields of time,
have not lessened the pain.
A suicide note,
A beautiful face.