I’m standing on a cliff.
With your gun in my hand.
The cold metal,
violently pressing
against my palms,
against my mind.
I already taste the metal
of your thoughts,
I tasted it a lot,
when I was still alive.
The ocean is screaming,
and fighting with rocks,
just like I fight
with my own thoughts.
I’m standing on the cliff
on the same exact spot
where I burried my life,
where I burried my thoughts
and your precious gun.