it was a sling-shot suicide
Time progresses and we remain. I only refer to select perspectives. For others I have no words to explain. Pleasure is bleeding to smother my thoughts. and still I want more. Should I point my gun? My trigger finger's itchy. inching toward another moving target. Perhaps it would be easier to nail you to the wall. What then? How does one handle conversations about the holes in their hands? There's an audience on the side-lines anticipating my next move. but like you, I am broken and fragile. and wouldn't be tasting blood for the first time. Why is it not me at the other end of the pistol? ...perhaps I am, and this is my slow death.