he says it every day, "how have you been?"
the answer stays the same, "alright, what about you?"
he tells me about how he's been.
the gun. he mentions it again.
i take the gun away.
i toss it into the steadily growing tower. it is quite tall.
if it tips and crushes me, i will crawl back out and reach for the gun again. toss it into the pile with the rest.
sure, i can't seem to breathe.
and yeah, my legs have shattered beneath me.
but he doesn't have a gun right now.
so it's okay.
"how have you been?" he asks.
"alright, what about you?" the answer comes again.
YOU ARE READING
red-stained fingertips
Poetryprose and poetry and blood and romance. a fucking stupid combination. ‧̍̊˙· 𓆝.° ｡˚𓆛˚｡ °.𓆞 ·˙‧̍̊ TW: some poems mention suicide, self-harm, homophobia, and eating disorders started in september of 2021 #4 in poetry 8 . 8 . 23
