Death Without Honor

at seventeen,
i already knew the deal—
no chance for success,
just a cheap life plan:
join up, wear the uniform,
and hope for a bullet
to take me out clean.

twice tried.
spit back twice.
Death Before Dishonor
tattooed across my skin,
black ink leaking into
my goddamned fraud.

and here i am,
a fake, a coward,
working for a places
that can’t pay its bills,
can’t afford coffee or
even toilet paper,
and never pays on time.

i drag myself in every day,
clock in, clock out,
dishonoring myself
and the poor dumb words
etched on my skin.

my brother knew better,
found his escape
at the end of a needle,
rode that dark wave down
and didn’t look back.

but i sit here, bottle in hand,
dick in the other,
toasting my failure,
waiting for the whiskey
to kill us off when empty.