soft hand
in velvet glove
holding the
still smoking gun
that triggered me
did not mean any harm
and yet . . .
the hole
in my gut
leaks blood
dark crimson
that spreads
like spilled ink
it was a clean shot
through and through
that caught me unaware
crushed bone and
memory
create the outline
of my body
on hard cement floor
ignore the scene
of the crime
I am deft
at resurrecting
mopping
the mess

© 2018 Christine Elizabeth Ray – All Rights Reserved