Not Calling It

you left me alone

with the shot gun

and an old Armani purse

full of shells,

buckshot

from the next room

it started whispering

seductively

suggestively

teasingly trickling tainted taunts

a giggleless niggling

a little under the skin

probing my weakness'

to assess my strengths

prodding at soft bits

looking for a way in

in an attempt to orchestrate

another unforgivable sin

scraping at old scars

burning like cold stars

seeking instabilities

voiding possibilities

vacant opportunity

lack of continuity

the unhealed

and

the unhealable

the unfelt

and

the unfeelable

these petty selfish moods

of self-destruction

these bitter sugared lies

of self-obstruction

i have no ears

for this silly shit

i'm not listening to the voices

i have neither the time

nor the inclination

just feeling down

not out-of-choices

oblivious to my obvious obstination

it beckoned a final time,

one long black finger extended

from a walnut stock palm

i told it to fuck off