She hands me the pistol:
the lamp's yellow light glints on the barrel.
My throat's scratchy as sandpaper,
pulse jackhammers in my neck,
and that rush is relentless.
The barrel spins:
of the chambers,
until it comes to a slow,
I stare back at her,
peering into those jungle-cat green eyes;
a nervous, but cocky grin
that spreads across her face.
My palms are sweaty as I cock the gun,
and place the tip at my right temple.
With frozen fingers, I pause,
and breathe deep before I pull the trigger...