intruder

a can of red paint
falling from scaffolding

as I try to imagine stability
as I push the next round into its chamber

i think about families
who enjoy each others company

i think about god

(and a can tumbles in the sky)

i think about
the dinner table
when i was a teenager
where I revealed
i was a satanist

i slap the revolver shut
and it goes "click"
it's satisfying to hear
it's solid
it's affirming

a sound that only my weapon
can make

(the can falls. and we are falling)

my revolver blurring
as she comes back into focus
just above the barrel

i'm aiming

and shes sobbing,
hunched over his body

her everything

they're both in their pajamas
they were watching television
i watch

them

for a few moments
intrigued

fascinated with the raw emotion
that runs from her eyes
that emanates from her mouth

(the paint is fire engine red)

i wish it were me
laying there below her
loved
cherished

dead

but

this is real

this is their house
this is me
having found their spare house key
under the welcome mat
having shot a man six times

still kneeling by his body
she doesn't take her eyes
off of him

i pull the hammer back
with my thumb

and a loud bang
accompanies a burst of color
to the floor


It is beautiful
it is art


and she is dead