theres a gun that sits on my bedside table
a prop, a toy i guess
of an antique transitional revolver
i remember when i bought it
the excitement of its creator as he told me all about it
the enthusiasm with which i listened
now gone
it sits alone on my bedside table

i like to pick it up
play with it
it does not shoot
yet the force of the hammer swinging against the stopper jolts my arm as if a bullet was expelled
the weight of it too
it feels real
all up until i pull the trigger to empty climax

id like to own a gun
to make one
i like to think id be responsible
surely knowing its real would halt my playing
my fantasies are safe
theyre only fun without reality
the feelings are real
the gun feels real
it feels real
but im just playing

when i play i hold it to my head
only sometimes
a lot of times
the heft bearing on my arm and the cold steel against my temple
my finger on the trigger
the click of the hammer being cocked
it gives me a rush
to relieve my lows
it feels real
my eye close

a scene plays in my head
it feels real
a scene of peace in bloodshed
it feels real
it feels real
it feels real
click
my head jolts with a slim satisfaction
nothing more
i pull the barrel from my head
heighted anger with the sight tangled in my hair
something must be fanning it
empty climax
im just playing