Divorce

‘Twas a gun what did it.

I always thought bullets didn’t sunder.

Splatter, sure.

Penetrate, obviously.

But never completely divide.

I’d had a half-written thought

that the trigger lock symbolized everything

and how grateful was I.

All the other guns were hidden,

but the shotgun stayed by the bed, still useless because of a lock.

I realized in the aftermath of Lexapro

you couldn’t compartmentalize your fears, is all.

Grade them by immediacy.

Right, the trigger lock is fear.

This whole schtick is a metaphor.

No, no.

It’s a daydream.

It’s the end I’ve written for us so I can mentally prepare.

I’ve been telling you for years

I won’t live through the apocalypse.

You won’t catch me cannibalizing,

and I’ve paid my dues in matters of starvation.

It’ll be the one circumstance

I give myself permission to shoot.

Until then,

please, please don’t leave me.
I’ll let you keep them.

I’ll let you choose them over me.