Poem 3 | Gun Imagery

With each trigger pull, I’ll master the recoil— how to let it jolt through me, a reminder. A jolt I’ll grow fond of, like a pulse keeping time, echoing in the hollow of my bones.

I won’t flinch when it sings through the silence, won’t blink when the flash blinds. There’s a choreography to surrender, a rhythm in the quiet aftermath.

I will perfect the art of stillness, where breath is a betrayal. Each practice round, I’ll learn not to breathe until I forget how to.