you are foolish to think that pointing the gun
directly at me
will make me fear you.
hovering your finger over the trigger,
will not do the damage that intend it to,
if i have already unloaded the bullets.
but to my dismay,
the damage is already done.
as i look over my shoulder,
i can see the shattered mirror,
and a pool of blood seeping through the carpet.
in the end, i became the monster
that everyone always warned me about.
it does not live under the bed.
neither is it hiding in the closet.
but it stares back at me
when i look at the mirror.
it's been a year since my last poem. i told myself that i would write more positive poetry. but after re-reading all my previous poems, it seems more fitting to continue with the same theme.
