she’ll die tomorrow
–gun in hand
hand that guided
pastel
before pistol,
color
before dolor, and
paint
before pain,
will trigger
an end game
she can…ah…live with
–Russian Roulette
grown tiresome.
Loading every
monkey in that barrel,
she’ll cry rough
–for the last time–
punch buttons
to bells
to voice mail unheard.
she’ll die tomorrow
(all over again)
gun in hand.
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