Steel knuckles, against a wooden frame. My hand flies to my chest-- it's coming out of nowhere, just like always.
The jingling of a small brass weapon, the click of my safety. My fingers slowly begin to move rhythmically, as I wait.
The squeaking of the metal, the thumping of rubber, getting louder and louder and louder; my head begins to pound. My fingers move faster.
The banging, the jingling, the click. The squeaking, the thumping, the pounding. The Scarlett 'A' imprinted on my chest.
********
song -- "Cath...," Death Cab for Cutie
YOU ARE READING
My View from the Mount
PoetryA really close friend (she's the older sister I never had) once told me that I don't need to be established to consider myself a writer. So here I am. I'm a writer, but I'm not a professional. I'm just a girl with a pen who speaks through a notebook...
