only you hold the gun in your hand

just a flinch. a streak of rage or misguided jealousy. My love blinded the stark reality. Death, in an instance. I can still feel my heart ever so slightly jump as you would slide open that dresser drawer, withdrawing the matte black glock. Your stone cold stare was familiar as you seemingly looked right through me. That same expression you kept with or without a physical weapon in hand. My echoing taunts still linger with each memory, "do it if you're going to do it." That simple. A seemingly fearless response, quite on par at the time. My ignorance only somehow balanced for some unknown reason. I will never know what went through you mind in those handful of times. Solemnly you sat with your finger resting ever so lightly on the trigger, possibly thinking of the safelt and the ease in which there is suddenly no guard or barrier. Maybe you desired power, even more than I constantly relinquished to you. Just the power of taking my life sustained you. Then it occurs to me possibly the weight of that loaded gun brought something else to you. The undeniable balance of a chamber loaded with shells, waiting to be released. That familiar feeling drew you to lost loved ones, losing yourself in the thoughts of their last moments. The power of pulling the trigger of a loaded gun, a single bullet piercing warm, soft flesh and ending someone's all.... I just thank God you never pulled that trigger.