BY TIYA PARMAR

I wield all the weapons

That can threaten me,

I wield them;

And so does my enemy.

When I point a gun at her,

She points it right back-

A mirror image of scaring precision-

A little more pressure on the trigger,

And I will be rid of her.

Forever.

Her sharp, resonating voice

will never keep me awake at night,

Or make me cry.

Her torturous face,

So startlingly similar to mine

(And yet so much better)

Will never remind me ever again,

That I don't deserve to live.

She won't jest and taunt and poke

At remains of mistakes long past-

Wounds that burn

And still make me writhe

In agonizing pain,

Wounds that cover every inch of my face,

Scarring it ugly.

So many uncountable wounds

that she put there.

She never let's me heal

Or breathe

She chokes and suffocated

Like a noose around a neck.

She allows me to climb the ladder,

While she holds it steady....

Then tips it over. I fall.

End up with a broken hand or leg,

Just another hindrance.

She does it always.

Over and over again.

She's the noose around my neck,

So she's better of dead.

I pick up my gun.

She's looking at me,

Her eyes a darkening shadow of disbelief.

I laugh,

She thought I didn't have it in me!

But this is it-

My gun pointing at her,

A last moment to savour.

What a turn of tables!

The barrel of my gun presses into the skin

Of her temple,

And I feel how she feels-

The cold, bitter metal,

A circular hollow

Digging, pressing painfully.

My finger on the trigger,

About to press down,

My first ever murder...

I hesitate,

Looking into her unaccepting eyes.

After all, they do mirror mine!

So I close my eyes,

And just do it.

Because it has been time enough.

The gun goes off,

A loud echo.

The last ringing sound echoing in our

Blown out heads.