God Don’t Watch at This Hour

You swore tonight was the last time.

You always promise that as the sun drips down the blinds,

like old orange paint.

But it’s too late now, and your hands already twitchin’,

fingers flickering over the chipped oak drawer

you already know is empty.

You scratch at splinters anyway,

searching for white crumbs and lost teeth.

“Fuck it.

One more won’t kill you.”

You’ve said that shit so many times

the wall’s already shouting it back.

Everything slows.

The clock’s red numbers slide sideways.

Eyes roll like they’re trying to escape you;

body ain’t far behind neither.

How long you been out?

The carpet’s gone sticky below your cheek.

There’s something dark under your nails,

and a streak of red down your wrist.

That your blood…or somebody else’s?

Your phone rattles across the table.

Why she textin’ you again?

Thought you blocked her three fuck-ups ago.

Her name flashes on the cracked screen,

letters crawling like ants.

She said she’d call the cops if you came ’round again.

Maybe she should’ve.

Outside, a siren sighs once and dies.

In the empty hallway, a door shuts

soft as a warning.