The Gun Facilitating Suicide

Curses on my tongue, i urge it to recant.
it is coveted dark matter. it is
luxuriously small.

I feel with rolling fingers the fibrosis, the
bullet holes. she is a gun that I shot myself
with. she is a mountain wilderness where I
wandered lost, trying different combinations
of words and stanzas, of rhyme and metaphor,
shouting a wistful salvation into the blackness.
Oh, and all of my distress; those days I spend
alone, these nights I fill with famous faces, they
are my prison, they are my guillotine. Utterly
abandoned, those hopes of holding her again.
Utterly malicious is any hint of hope. she tears at
my soul, she lights me on fire when she opens
her heart, when she says the ball to be in my
court. she asks for a hero, I am a coward. she
asks for a diplomat, I am a lobbyist. she asks
for Abraham Lincoln, I am J.W. Boothe, taking
lives to suit my agenda; this agenda of myself.
I am brick and mortar stacked atop petrified
brick. I am a thought-driven hermit, hiding in
my solace, afraid to do it wrong, but only capable
of drinking and sleeping and rolling my own
cigarettes. And death, capable of death.

At which I'm growing rather adept these days.
one can only hope.