Mine is a shotgun


Only a couple barrels of ammo

Packed with the birdshot

Of a thousand pecks and jabs

Holding it in

Until finally the trigger pulls

and BAM!

@#!$ you

Yours is a submachine

Constant, steady

An endless supply of small frustrations

Spitting out anger

Into anything that crosses your path

Never ceasing

Until finally the clip empties

and click


I couldn’t love an unarmed person

Your temper keeps it fair

Makes us stronger

Because expectations make us angry

And so long as I expect

And you expect


Then all we have to do my love

is learn to


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