I sit alone.
The gun sits still on my lap.
A prickly sensation quivers down my spine.
With a straight mug I tell myself I feel fine.
In a heavy drift I lose track of time.
I lose sight of my reality; all I see are the blurred lines.
In awe of the painful memories the tears pour out.
What is this feeling?
I search for answers atop my head on the crackled white ceiling.
In my daze I lose myself in a whirlwind of past beatings, am I dreaming?
I forget this is real life.
I forget I bleed at the tip of a knife.
I forget in my mind my conscious feelings of love and hate for him strife.
I forget to my heart, my mind is like its cheating wife.
His fist spins me in a senseless direction.
Amongst my words of murder
And thoughts of suicide the blows perform the perfect dissection.
It shatters the glass between my subconscious and conscious into its digression.
I am one;
With the bullet in my brain
That came straight from the pain
Of my finger on the trigger of my gun.