My brother has a gun in his head
and it’s heavy
and it’s weird
the weight so void of comprehension
it devours
all light from his day
The barrel is pointed
everywhere, anywhere
he can’t find his place
he ricochets, he folds, he bends
upside down inside out
until he buckles
breaks
Hair trigger ticking
his motor cortex is damaged
stunted
white matter grey matter
gone stale gone rot
exploding
he takes away
I count every child that falls
like petals torn and tossed
the husbands, the wives
half empty
mothers and fathers,
walking shadows
I hold your hands
and tell you how you matter
and I try not to hate
try not to grab a gun
try not to take away
Writing 