******* on a gun

Left side:

I hate myself,
I hate the life I live
Who I’ve become
And how little recognition that I get
How much the world took and how much to the world I give
Now all that is left is the urge to **** on a gun
So that’s what my old self did

Right side:

You don’t always heal.
Sometimes,
you execute the version of yourself
that kept you breathing
but not living.

You press the barrel to your mouth —
not to die,
but to speak
a final truth
through clenched teeth.

To say:
You failed me.
To say:
You kept me small.
To say:
You let the world hollow me out
and still begged for more.

And then —
you pull the trigger.
You feel the echo,
not in blood,
but in silence.

The silence of
not hating yourself anymore.
Of not needing to be
the same person
just because they survived.

You don’t die.
You don’t run.
You just leave behind
a version of you
that had nothing left.

And that, too,
is a kind of living