living with two guns strapped to my back. facing both inwards and outwards. waiting for a trigger pulling finger to make a decision. a shakespearean tragedy.
is my fate my own? arms tied to a ceiling hook.
maybe the guns will grow sentient. they will buzz against my lower back. whisper sweet nothings into my ear. telling me to wait on god. the rapture is nigh.
if that is true, maybe jesus can use his trigger pulling finger on one of the guns. will he save a reflection, his or mine? or will he chortle and grimace? hold my cheeks, bloody-fingerprints and emptied-out palms, and say; i’ve been in this same predicament— don’t feel special.
i’m one person willingly lined up for the gas chamber. the execution row. i will find that there are multiple me’s waiting for the bullet. all wearing different colored cloths over their eyes. holding hands. a fucked up birthday garland. wishing you a speedy recovery and a happy birthday.
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