The Smell in My Mouth

What is that, I do believe I smell a gun? Perhaps it’s not so much the machine but its intent. The promise is that of a clean repositioning of one’s mortality in a far more manageable state. That is unless you miss. Even if your aim is steady and oh so very true, I must enquire as to the elegance of aftermath. Life in itself is a tricky mess of desire and expectation with subjectivity playing with the circuitry. When your world goes from cacophony to quite, outside the eight inches of dead space, chaos ensues as every ugly part of those who supposed themselves close to you starts eating its surroundings. What then do we do with this mangled memory of a body that at one time could live in and through us. To whom do we turn too to find the finger that pulled the trigger, for lord known’s we need one to make us, the left behind, feel sain, if only for a moment.