Granddad lost himself in the bottle,
dad lost himself in work,
I lose myself in food.
It’s all addictive personalities,
thank fuck it ends with me.
My brother-in-law lost himself with a shotgun,
an uncle in snow and vodka,
another with high-powered cars.
It’s all self-loathing, all suicide,
just the speed that differs,
and society’s wagging fingers or outstretched arms.
Does speed equal guts, or shameless bravado,
long-term death a quavering resolve?
They don’t weep any gentler,
if it’s now or twenty years away,
Just if it’s not now.
they don’t ask why.