The Gun

It's hard to put down the gun,

You hold it up to protect yourself and your home, to protect the people you love. You carry it at all times to fend off your fears, the monsters that claw away at your eyes, your heart, and your dreams.

You hold the gun high to make yourself known, to show pride in the fact that you've grown and moved to a new home, that in your bones you're reborn anew, yet no one knew you even held a gun because all they saw was you. You just hold up the gun when you need to take something away. Negative thoughts. Bad memories. Horrible tragedies and irrational enemies. Minor impurities, major insecurities.

But nothing compares to your lack of immunity. Your lack of resistance. Absence of regret. "Is this what it's come to?", as it's aimed at your head.

It's hard to put down the gun, if you wish you were dead.