Writing by Kyle Freelander
I tiptoe but you hear
me coming your way, it’s too late
for games, you say, it’s too late
to play. So I retreat
to my seat in the corner
where I am to be shamed
by your red words once more.
A bloody bullet you used before,
a bloody bullet off the un-swept floor
pointed directly at me,
so sullied, so dirty. I can’t help
it anymore than I can help myself
at this point. Stranded. Screaming,
pleading, bleeding, begging for you
not to pull that trigger again.
This is the end, you say,
it’s too late for games,
it’s too late to play.
It is time to pull the trigger,
to attack me with all you’ve got,
an old wound ripped open
that keeps me in my seat,
where I retreat when I try
to move us forward together
and you leave me to bleed out alone.