A gun
Thought I was being held at gun point,
Twice I ran for my life.
Twice that man put his gun in my hand.
Twice that act stopped me in my track.
Naive as I am, we both knew I've never touched an ammo.
He showed me where the trigger is.
A favour I didn't ask though.
"We are worth a shot"- He said.
The man did not want to be shot.
He was hoping I would throw his gun and run,
Thus reminding him of how his parents would dismiss his thirst for pain.
.
But I did not.
I shot.
.
A fresh drill into the wound which he has left to rot.
The pain he craved was not the pain I gave.
We give the love we think we deserve.
To be loved by me was to be seen.
To be loved by him was to be unseen.
Being loved by me is to be heard.
Being loved by him is to become silence that hugs the man at night, reminding him of how lonely he is.
Being loved by him is to remind the man of his self-torture
When the ghost of my presence haunts him at night; i would know then, he does love me.
After all.
I am loved.
.
In this an accurate portrait of an avoidance attacher;
or a delulu talk of someone trying to believe they were loved?
"I love you"- the man said before running away;
a trail of blood from the wound I gave him lead me to the edge of the darkness where he hides.
If I venture into that darkness, would I find him? Is it worth risking my sanity for?
Or could I just say that I've tried.
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