A loaded gun in your own hand may
not kill you
but your mind loaded with the
thoughts
of your lately wrecked
relationship
can destroy the shit out you.
Even if it wasn’t a relationship.
Your own flesh tires you up.
Diligently questioning about
letting it revel in his
and for making a home in it.
Your own heartbeat stares you
outside of yourself, panting and
waiting for some clichéd answers
to calm it down.
Underneath your every breath,
You hear some soft lines
Of the poem he left
In the corners of your mouth
while kissing the last time.
Your eyes forget to function
And take up different climates
From torrential downpour
To the dessert like dryness.
But they never forget to open up.
Every organ turns into
An explosive device
And that’s… that’s what it does to you.
Every passing day you just
end up surviving the series of blasts.
