The bar doesn’t give a damn what’s between your legs.
v
It only wants what’s in your liver.
You weren’t “winning.”
You were bleeding for attention
and calling it strategy.
You didn’t outdrink the boys.
You auditioned for their approval
and called the cuts trophies.
That’s not rebellion.
That’s just self-harm
in a room full of spectators
who forgot your name the second the bottle tipped.
And Johnny?
He didn’t hold you like a barred window.
He left you outside of one—
face pressed to the glass,
mistaking cold for intimacy.
You didn’t skip the wake.
You skipped the reckoning.
Drove past the house,
hoping the blood had congealed into meaning.
Here’s the truth you won’t tattoo on your thigh:
You bled for a cigarette,
and the only smoke left
was your own delusion
curling into the ceiling fan.
You weren’t the champion of quarters.
You were the cautionary tale
passed around like a lighter—
sparks, burns,
and no one remembers who lit the match.