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Fingertips 

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.”




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