Gun

I understand where you’re coming from.

I get it, believe me. I know it’s not black and white, I know you’re coming from a shade of grey I still haven’t familiarized myself with. And you should know that greyness of yours is burning into my skin and turning me blue with discontent.

I get it. Believe me.

I’m all for open-mindedness. I know you think your gun isn’t loaded. I know it goes off only at times when your mind is asleep and your hands are thinking on their own. I know you just don’t think it through, but the bullet has already lodged itself into my chest.

But I’m keeping an open mind.

So when the blood cries itself out of me, I’m only trying to look into your eyes that you’ve kept shut. I don’t want the reasons, I just want the apology. I don’t want your please, I just want your I’m sorry. I want your sincere I’m so sorry, please forgive me because only that can breathe the life back into me.

Just give me the fucking gun. I’ll put it back on your dresser. Again. There’s no point in unloading it, you’ll only reload it the moment I turn my back to leave that infamous trail of blood on the carpet of your bedroom.

I know you never meant for it to go off.

But how many times can you shoot me down before I can no longer stand up?