Clay Hunt

Take it, I Don’t Want it

I would’ve shot myself if I had a gun

back then.
But that was back then.

If I had a gun now,
I’d give it to my worst enemy
and look into their eyes
as steel touched their cold hands.
I’d watch reflections
of doubt crowd their moons
that orbit around passion,
eclipsing life,
as my palms crawl
up mountains of grief
to punch the precipice of acceptance
and prove
that my hands hurt because
of my actions.

And if your actions were the last thing that
I’d experience,
         I’d understand, for I think I get human nature.
Nature, it’s kind of funny.

Anyway, I’d give you the gun.
Take it, I don’t want it.

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