soft hand
in velvet glove
holding
still smoking gun
that triggered me
did not mean harm
and yet . . .
the hole
in my gut
leaks blood
dark crimson
that spreads
like spilled ink
it was a clean shot
through and through
that caught me unaware
crushed bone and
memory
create the outline
of my body
on hard cement floor
ignore the scene
of the crime
I am deft
at resurrecting
mopping
the mess
© 2018 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved
Reblogged this on Brave and Reckless and commented:
My latest piece on Whisper and the Roar
LikeLike
Chilling
LikeLike
Only the guilty shooter knows what trigger they will strike.
The innocent one does not foresee the wound.
Does that make it hurt more or less?
Does that matter in the mopping up?
LikeLike
Reblogged this on cabbagesandkings524 and commented:
Christine Ray – trigger-shot
LikeLike
Reblogged this on The Militant Negro™.
LikeLike