Epigraph: "Night, I love you like a rose enfolds"
naǧí

Night, I don’t love you.
Like a scorpion crushed under the boot
of some drunk cowboy stumbling back
to his trailer after last call at the *****-tonk,
out behind my sorry-***, run-down rental
on the outskirts of Lubbock.

Like a rancher
with a backbone of solid steel,
no time for whinin’
about how hard life’s been—
“Poor me, can’t catch a break, y’all”—
and who never, not once,
sees a **** thing wrong
in the pitch-black of a moonless sky.
Whiskey? Sure, I’ll take a shot,
but pills or powders? Nah, never touched ’em,
and I still can’t figure out why.

I hate you,
like a trucker on I-10,
pushing through another sleepless haul,
with nothing but the hum of tires
and the glow of dashboard lights—
and if I stop, I’m *******,
contract broken, paycheck gone.

Like a programmer in some freaking startup,
wasting his life
on lines of code no one’ll ever read,
every comment a curse,
every bug a reminder
this whole **** app’s gonna crash and burn.

Like a plumber out in Waco,
dragged outta bed at 2 a.m.
by some rich guy with a mansion on the lake,
kneelin’ in some fancy bathroom,
elbow-deep in someone else’s crap,
trying to figure out
why the hell this gold-plated toilet won’t flush.

Frustrated and worn thin,
I’m sinkin’
in your endless void
of problems with no solutions.
I hate you
like the last flicker of a campfire
doused by the cold, unfeeling dark.