sometimes i wonder if you like to shoot your gun just because you like the sound of the bullet.
other times, i am left to wonder if it's the heavy metal in your hand or the metallic taste left singeing your tongue. cruelty of a child wrapped in the gilded tongue of a liar, the pettiness of eve's snake, the deceitfulness of an ocean hit by the first storm. you are all smoke and mirrors - dragging the earth down with your fingertips simply because you no longer can feel the sun.
still, even when soaked in my thoughts and rooted in my wonder, i am dragged to surface. i am pulled forcefully back to reality (an artist's work must be enjoyed and who am i to deny you that pleasure?) so i oblige. i touch palm to side and it comes away wet. it comes away red. it is hot and sticky and although paid radiates through my side and down my spine, i cannot think past the way the color seeps through the cracks in my hand. my breath grows shallow and still i am mesmerized with the way that it spreads - fast in some parts and slow in others. like a virus, i think. how fitting.
you are laughing at the destruction and i wonder if you can see the beauty at all. i have known beauty and chaos and wonder in madness but this is none of this. this is joy in pain - this is celebration of agony. it is purposeful and deliberate and the sniper aim is sent to send reverberating shocks throughout the canyons of my red-soaked palms. it is the concentration of a sculptor and the reckless abandon of a painter. it is flinging acrylic at canvas, dragging ink across paper, pulling metal through wood.
it is the work of an artist. tragedy.
my shirt is soaked and my cheeks are dry. i cannot help but notice your finger on the trigger and the fact that my feet are no longer still in wonder. i am moving - i am running forward. i am jamming the gunmetal to the bottomside of my chin. screaming. i am screaming for you to shoot again. you missed a spot. hit me again and show me that you mean it.
show me that you have the power and you have the trigger and you can hurt me whenever you want simply because you can. because it amuses you. because you are cold and dark and you hate the glow of warmth that radiates down my back. you hate the sun-soaked world where i get to live. so pull the trigger and watch it explode. you will get to glory in the power that you have created, the reins that you have gotten to control and you will laugh at the colors seeping throughout the cracks. you are an artist, you will proclaim. you are an artist.
but still, you will not see - you never had the power at all.
in the end, it was me that pulled your hateful trigger after all.
(so shoot, baby, shoot: you missed a spot)