we were forgers of broken paths.
Black with sin, our guns were empty
as we charged the Sheriff’s wrath.
“Don’t look down!” you yelled at me
as you braked and spun the wheel.
Bullets shrieked, the windshield smashed,
and I gave Death my last appeal.
“Spare us, please!” I begged the figure,
who solemnly nodded his head.
He sent us falling, falling down—
when I awoke, I was in bed.
In silence we lay together
reeking of crime and ash and mud.
But when I searched for your embrace
I instead found pools of blood.
“Don’t look down,” you rasped to me
as my hand grew soaked with red.
I panicked and yanked your head back
though I knew you were already dead.
That same day, I tasted bullets.
I had had enough of life’s woes.
I looked down as I pulled the trigger…
to see the flames of hell at my toes.
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