By Patricia Mercado

What was it that you wanted from me? I had a dream
that you shot me from across the dining table, that
the bullet went through my chest, leaving an exit
wound the size of your index finger. I woke up only
to find that you were actually the gun, hollow and cold,
you have an agenda. Made only to kill, what did you mean?
When you tell me Iām always this way, always slipping
on the blood of my dead body. š š°š¶ š¢š³š¦ šµš©š¦ š³š¦š¢š“š°šÆ šāš® šØš°š°š„.
Was I really? When I helped you bury the bodies, all of them
rotting, like I am now. The earth has claimed them and theyāre
telling me Iām next. Fate has called it from the moment we met.