Emily Dickinson had said that her life had stood a loaded gun.
I do not think my life is the same.
I believe my life is a revolver with a single bullet.
A revolver playing Russian Roulette.
The bullet still waiting to leave its chamber.
The cylinder still spinning, waiting to land on the lucky shot.
My revolver is still waiting to take upon the shame and damnation found in the crevices of alleys I have yet to travel.
The metal is still polished, still sitting shiny in the case it was placed in the day I brought it home.
There are no fingerprints to be found by those who have held it, wielding it to their whims,
I have kept it safe.
But God help the soul who believes themselves brave enough to wield what is mine.
For luck is a dangerous thing,
And a hammer pulled back is even more so.