Of All The Stories I've Written, I Share With You, Stranger, These Few

Panic with a Gun

You were bleeding,
soaking the towels bright red.
I was trying not to break my calm,
begging you
to stay awake,
to stay alive.
But you only ignored my pleas
as your eyes drifted open and shut.

My shaky hands clumsily dialed 911,
screaming into the phone
because how else
was the dispatcher going to know
that this was an emergency?

My tears mixed with your blood
as I desperately
tried to stop
the growing stain on your shirt.
But each towel soaked through
just as fast as I piled them on.

I could hear your heartbeat.
I watched as your chest
rose up and down with each breath.

Up.

Down.

Up.

Down.

The lady on the phone asked how it happened.
Silently, my eyes floated
to the gun laying on the floor.

I told her I didn't know.

You were gasping for breath,
taking my hand in yours
so tight my fingers went blue.

You pulled in close,
whispering in my ears
words I'd swore
I'd never share with the world.

So I won't.

But then your grip relaxed,
your heart fell asleep,
and your lungs collapsed out of exhaustion.

And you were gone.

I looked around the room
in any attempt to bring you back to me,
but all I saw was the gun in my hands,
pointing at you.

So maybe I was the one with the gun,
screaming
"Don't come any closer or I'll shoot!"
in a frantic paranoia.

I was the one with the gun,
too scared to let you in,
but too scared to let you go.

So I panicked,
and we all know
not to let panic hold a gun in our hands.