Guns can't fix bullet holes.
The oozing wounds won't be healed by the steel.
Hard as it might try, the gun is still the one that fired.
He is the gun.
Was the gun: safety off, fully loaded, round in the camber, hammer cocked.
The muzzle was poised just beneath the girl's heart.
All the time she was with him, she didn't notice the finger on the trigger.
She felt the metal, but didn't flinch.
Her weapon was holstered.
The girl had retired it. Finally.
She didn't see any need for it.
Didn't feel his trigger squeezing until: click - pow!
He was the gun.
His bullet-words weren't neat.
Like shot, they tore through flesh and soul, ripping and biting, scattering bits of her into the wind.
Leaving pieces of her on the wooden floor too mangled to pick up.
Love left her scarred.
He is the gun.
Trying to stem the blood flow with a burning muzzle that only add insult to injury.
He might not mean to, but the sizzling of flesh is wretched in her nose.
The smoke of it makes her lungs tighten, and her eyes water, and her breaths to come shorter.
The girl has panic attacks.
Guns scare her.
He scares her.
She doesn't know how long his finger was on the trigger before he decided to pull it.
She is scared that he doesn't love her.
She is scared that he does.
The girl wishes he did, and she doesn't because the wounds keep getting torn open.
She is scared because she doesn't know how to trust anymore.
She is scared because she is still rebuilding the bulletproof defenses she had up before him.
He is a gun, and her walls are not finished.
