Gunshot straight at one’s own head
This is not a Russian Roulette,
but a game that aims to forget - for its chambers
each loaded with a bullet.
No point in spinning the cylinder
At any rate, she will pull the trigger.

Gunshot straight at one’s own head
For all the guilt and regret
That will endlessly chase until the last gasp for air
Imperiling; Suffocating

Gunshot straight at one’s own head
For all the shared walks and late night talks
Of faded moments of laughter and giggles
Of traded sentiments trapped in an instance of felicity.

Gunshot straight at one’s own head
For all the petty fights and struggling rights.
Words trip through disheveling minds
falling into a pit of abysmal distress.

Gunshot straight at one’s own heart
For this undying, imperishable memories
Not even a bullet and its fast-paced release
could make it vanish..

And now I ran out of ammos.