I feel the cold metal barrel pressed against my head,
bullet, laying in wait,
thumping pulse in my temples,
though I hold no gun.
It is my great grandfather’s, my great grandmother’s,
my best friend’s mom’s and stepmom’s,
my friend’s, my neighbor, and so many
and while it is not in my hands, I still feel the weight of it, the sensation
of something leaned against me,
a dull ache in the top of my throat,
and the deepest pull, the desire to
squeeze the trigger.
It’s the clicking of the safety,
the unfurling of countless nights
stayed up too long, trying to figure what it all means, and when we
find no answer…
No great comfort in why we should be here, not one solid delusion of self-importance, and the echoing of centuries of self-loathing, and uncertaintly, stacking against us,
enough to break Atlas’s arms.
When we stop asking questions…
That’s where the true trouble begins.