the trigger

This isn't a phase. I'm in a haze.
I hate myself. I hate others. I swallowed
foam that turns to stone. My voice has not been
in tact for years. I hand children spears and say:
forget the years, you'll die within a blink. That
makes them think. Children facing death tend
to take a breath and drag a loved one with.
Or maybe not a loved one, but maybe
just anyone. Someone. Some one person
who felt the brute of a sharp tip and
began to split their veins into two, saying
hesitantly, "one for me, one for you."

Their blood spills and this is what kills,
the bills, sitting on a table, our household,
family dinner, but we've got empty plates and our silver
is gone because we sold it at the flea market, sold our stocks,
forgot the rocks, forgot the pockets, there is no piece of gum,
this is the last rung, the last round, the last sound you'll here
before the crashing metalics. The trigger dies in love, and the
bullet has a few, infinite seconds before losing itself. It's either
a lifetime or a torture chamber. We've learned not to tell the difference.