#this is terror

spinning becomes tumbling becomes falling

and what do I do if the gun is in my own hands?

if the trigger pull is only a flick of my finger away?

if the dormant fire rests in the barrel

and my throat?

what happens if the destruction is up to the destroyer?

I have never known myself as soft

I have a home in heavy greyblack metals

sharpened blades

I am waiting for someone else to pull the pin

interrupt

tell me what to do

my choice has already been made

this isn't supposed to be mine too

the scarred soil

charcoal black forest

that is mine

the crumbling ash

fragile branches

my comforts

what do I do with new growth?

what do I do with a forest I am afraid to burn?

life I actually care about?

something I cannot leave?

I don't know what staying looks like

I never knew this want

this desire

this soul-burning

electricity

I have never wanted to lower my tone

and believe you will hear my whispers

I have never wanted to trust myself

in handling my own fury

screaming is the only way my voice is known

too-loud laughs

too-loud sighs

only the brazen are heard

so I drag the vowels out

to give you plenty of room to tell me to stop

to tell me something more important

to keep me mute

what am I supposed to do with your silence?

what am I supposed to do with your acceptance?

I cannot possibly believe you are comfortable

with the unpolished

with the messy

with the quiet

what do I do when I so desperately wish to stop

biting my tongue?

what do I do with all of me?

what do I do with my own furious mind?

what do I do with my trembling knees?

what do I do with this gun in my hands?