Cold

I wonder how it feels in the hand,

Cold metal,

Indifference,

The gatekeeper of my early departure,

I spin the cylinder over and over,

Relaxing,

Is almost the right word,

The small metal circle makes the tiniest,

Of imprints,

Upon my forehead,

The trigger is immovable,

Like a boulder,

My hands prespire,

My finger trembles against the weight,

 

All of the things I could have done,

If I had known more about the world that awaited me,

If I could have called my younger self,

and tell him how naive we were,

How I let us down,

 

Which is worse,

To live with a sense of injustice,

Or to realize that your misfortune,

Is justice after all.

The world does not need our approval,

To tell us who we really are.

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