Gungirl
I was born with the barrel of a gun in my mouth.
How poetic.
How pathetic
A piercing to the soft pallet.
A Jackson Pollock of castoff.
What good would that do?
Between tungsten teeth,
some steel alloy spraying alabaster brain matter.
The walls are off white already,
and i don't really know who i am right now,
but in the back of my mind,
the person i was
a week ago
is telling me to reframe.
Positivity.
Your peppa pig plaster can't cover
an exit wound the size of a satellite dish.
I am not a violent person
to anyone but myself.
there is something beautiful in being sub-human.
It's low self esteem,
a sawed-off shotgun with the silencer on
another news article buried under years of
worse problems than mine.
I am not the same person i was last week.
I want to get worse.
I want suffering, and
i want it beautiful.
God won't miss the gun girl,
propped up placid with a peacemaker to the pallet,
painting the ceiling in shotgun shells and shrapnel.
I want to be seen as the sum of my parts,
scattered in claret on the ceiling.
But here i am, waxing poetic.
It's pathetic.
