Tap, tap, tap.
Like the pitter patter of a gentle rain,
As the bullets enter into and destroy your brain.
Your eyes burst with color as every last synapse fires,
You fall to the floor and flop like a fish,
Your lungs so spastic you don’t even get your last breath.
They find you not as you fell,
But as you flailed.
Little bits of who you were blown about the room.
A chunk of memory clings precariously to a picture frame.
Bit of joy splattered on a dog toy.
Your reasoning stuck to a thick text.
And high above, resting on the ceiling fan,
Turning slowly,
The little piece reserved for love,
Unable to rest,
Even upon death.
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