The day you left me was the day I died. I could feel you leaving me. I was always ready to pull the trigger, but You beat me to it. You shot me in the foot, but I had remorse. I never shot you, or at least I don't think I did. I kept my gun tucked away, adding more and more bullets. You put your gun away, deciding an axe was better. I let you chop of my fingers, scar my thighs, and tear my insides. You called my hands werid, my legs ugly, and my stomach disgusting. You left me to rot. My gun is still full, my body is decomposed. You let the flies pick at my flesh, and the maggots eat my skin. You said I was nothing. You come back on occasion, but you pretend I'm not there. You walk pass my corpse, take out your gun, and shoot them instead.
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