how to hold a gun



It's a death contemplation poem.

I can’t love you anymore
Except I always will
This pistol in my mouth hasn’t warmed up yet
Because you’re uncomfortable with it

That’s what keeps the metal so cold
The smothering you do
And the complete lack of attention you give me
I don’t blame you for any of it

I know what will happen when I pull
Which is why it’s in my mouth pointed up
And not against my temple
I don’t want to think anymore

Not after seeing the blood and brains
On the journalists’ cameras 
And the dead horse abandoned in the gutter
That the mangy dogs hadn’t started gnawing yet

It burns, this world, sometimes
And the neighbors downstairs party too hard
While I die up here in a silence
That is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard

What shuts off and when and how
How beauty stops and ugly grows
And always, someone wants me to record it
Without actually feeling anything

Well fuck all of you who support that
I can write a suicide poem 
And force you to deal with it
Because you choose to be here in the room with the gun and I

We’re old friends now
The gun talks to me in ways you wouldn’t understand
Unlike the pills you use to numb yourself
The gun is filled with solutions to problems

You say I’m paranoid, but you haven’t looked in the mirror
And realized that you have no reflection yet
That we’re both beautiful inside our ugly
I wish I could have hugged you all one last time

But I died years ago
Thousands of miles from here
On a hot day while I was sleeping
Inside an illusion someone else dreamed up

At least I know what I’m doing
For the next few seconds
You have no right to live comfortably
And I have not the ability


I go well with morning coffee, or evening whiskey.

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