Russian Roulette

She’s Russian roulette,

A partially loaded chamber that with each spin you have exercise liquid self- honesty regarding your desire for it to be the bullet or not,

Keep feeding the gun,

Verbal disputes on domestic battlegrounds you must try to not burn down your own house,

Add a bullet, put the greasy barrel in your mouth,

Yank the trigger,

Let out a shout bordering disappointment.

 

His friends tell him they can smell the gun powder on her like overzealous perfume,

He said he doesn’t mind the smell,

He’s told us he couldn’t bear the heat but he doesn’t mind the hell,

He keeps getting burnt,

But the sex is good,

She keeps cutting into this chest,

And can’t practice what she’s learnt,

She’s a gun…

Partially loaded,

But loaded nonetheless,

Gun,

He’ll keep feeding her bullets,

He’ll keep pulling the trigger,

We’ll keep warning him,

But eventually he’ll kill himself,

With red shit splattered all over the walls of her favorite place,

The snake to chase the time away,

The time be waste-

The day away,

Bloody whites,

Post lovely nights.

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