The whisky hammering is

a soft, slow touch

molding you as putty to

the recesses of your mind.

 

It rubs you,

coerces you,

like felt in a world

filled with cactus feelings,

people with razors for teeth,

it's never-ending,

the scorn of an existential hell.

 

I'll give you one hundred years

free of charge

and it won't matter anyways.

 

Soak my brain in one hundred

years worth of whisky

in a night and it won't matter

anyways

because we're all waiting for the same train,

some depart earlier than others

but it's the same destination.

 

I love you,

I hope you burn.