• That beep, it’s so familiar, so unsteady, and so loud, just in pace with my heart.
    The voices of yelling doctors and nurses telling sobbing parents it will be alright.
    And that sound, the bang, the one that I was longing for all along, the one that was supposed to set me free.
    It turned its back on me at the last second, it wailed so loud that the neighbors could hear. They rushed over, and were horrified at what they saw.
    I covered in a crimson blanket, a strange satisfied smile on my face.
    A smoking gun lay in my hand, content, thinking it had done its job.
    A wound, right between rib cage and entering my lung, were the bullet lies.
    A heart yearning for the bullet to creep a little closer, wishing it would penetrate its tough muscle and make it stop beating, make it whole.
    A girl, lying crumpled on a blood stained carpet, a smile on her face, wishing she could close her eyes for good, loving every moment of her fall from grace.

    Yes I pulled the trigger, and yes I should have put it to my head instead, but my heart, how it yearned for that bullet to price it. How it screamed in horror as I put it to my head, how it yell at me told me to shoot it, it was the one that was broken, the bullet would make it whole, how could I resist?

    But the Bullet didn’t do its job, and the neighbors herd the gun shot, called 911 and my parents. So here I lay, in this hospital room, the beep loud in my ears, along with my thumping heart, my hearts screams of anger telling me I didn’t do it right, that I should of used a bigger caliber gun. I should have taken better aim, I should be dead. The crimson flood that washed over my eyes is still sharp in my memoirs, and oh the wail of the gun, so crisp, so clean, so killer.