Leo Hussain
Contributor
Your arm abruptly extends towards me
My words, impossibly fainter, blend with the echoing drone
My eyes trace over your decorated fingertips
Why has my one distant wish become your command?
Tight in your hand, the barrel faces your person
Your voice orders in unison with the grip
TV static runs through my veins and out of my ears
“Take it,” you both say
Tight in my hand, the barrel follows your wishes
I wince — the cold carbon steel presses against my skin
But wait; the deafening drone is but a begging siren
When my eyes flick open, the sirens go mum
I see my dim prophecy you authored spelled out on your face
Unconvinced, the frigid tool ricochets beneath me
Scoffing, your whispers rattle my ground
“If you were a quarter of a man.”
