when you pull the trigger,
a bullet will cut the world in two –
the air on either side of the line of motion curling
like the skin of an apple.
do not devour it all.
peel back the outer layers of the moment
and only put your mouth on what matters most:
the expanding sound,
swelling like a balloon and breathing in
the empty between your ears
until it pops after just an antimatter of seconds –
the unsteady echoes that stumble out of your eyes,
away from the scene of the crime,
leaving blood and bits of body and bits of violence
behind with each wobble until murder is just a mother
slamming her front door shut
in the face of a man claiming to be her son
that it sounds like a gunshot.
invite the lost boy to lose himself in your lips.
your tongue probably looks like a sidewalk in the dark.
(or the path up the front of his old house.)
and when he gets to the base of your throat,
swallow him whole.
do him the kindness of making death
feel like coming home.
-Micaela Camacho-Tenreiro (IG: micaela.camxcho)