you imagine aiming your ruger at her forehead,   squeezing the trigger   &   watching the grotesque scene unfold.    vermillion splattering against the parched ground,   blood soaking into the cracks,   a pleased smile on your face.    it’s the dream.    [a sick dream   ;   you know what’s sick?    never shutting up.    yeah,   that’s a crime!]    halting in your spot,   you finally cut the blonde off,   western boots gliding against the sand as ire boils carmine on amber skin.    ❝    do you ever  shut  ya’  mouth?    the whole walk,   all yer done is  yap  my fuckin’ ears off.    ❞    fingers delving into the pockets of washed cobalt jeans,   cracked lips purse.    ❝    it’s startin’ to  really  piss me the fuck off,   blondie.    ❞