Sometimes I wonder
What the cold and cross-hatched
Barrel of the gun would
Feel like as it slipped between my jaws
And bumped along my front teeth
Ending when the sights tear along the roof
Of my warm and wet mouth.
Would I run the weapon
Over my skin, feeling the liquid cool
Dali-esque metal glides
And drips
And sings over my face until
The bullet touches my lips,
Touches my teeth,
Touches my uvula
Touches my blood
And spine
And finally
Finally
Finally
Air.
YOU ARE READING
Big Eyes
PoetryPoems from my path across the United States as I attempt to heal and find my family. ***my mother and I have reconciled. We're good, you shouldn't worry.
