Gun

I stare down the barrel
of the gun in his eyes.
His ruthless words —
the bullet rounds.
His echoing voice,
like shell casings
clattering on the ground.

He cocks this gun
when he screams yet again
that I have sinned,
oh, I have sinned.
By loving you.

Did we share a kiss?
Did we sleep together?
Because what does he know of love
enshrined by hope and prayer?

The bullet holes
his .45-caliber ego
burns in my heart…
he doesn’t see how
he tears love’s purity apart.

But he goes on —
he fires away —
that I have wronged
the day and age
of modesty and sagacity.

For to him
it can’t be love —
can’t be justified
if it wasn’t “sin”.

But I have loved you
in spirit and soul —
not by being
“modesty’s mole”,
and this truth will
save me from his firearms.

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