Trigger
I am marked
But I do not notice
Yet
The slightest pressure
Triggers an explosion
And a hollow point projectile
Slices the atmosphere
Slamming into me
Shredding upon entry
I NEVER EVER see it coming
I am hit in my blind spot
So hard I swivel
My brain sloshing
In my fractured skull
I am disoriented
What the hell was that?
My vision narrows to tunnel
I am suddenly sweating
From all pores
Profusely frightened
Blood is pulled from my limbs
I am numb
Shaking and cooling
My resources pumped and pooling
Inside my middle, vital
Organs filling for survival
And then
I am angry
WHAT THE FUCK!
I am sick of this
Trigger-happy culture
And the concentric circles
Of my psyche
Available for target practice
Whenever and without warning
Until I am left riddled with holes
Shreds of me swaying
In this stale exhaling wind
I cannot patch them
Fast enough
Before another flash
BANG
And I am thrown back
Again
Entirely
To the exact moment when
I said no
But he
Didn’t listen
-a.r.
Painting: Tattooed Lady by Jennifer Davis
sometimesihatemycat 
oh, the pathos of those last lines – I send you stealth-camouflage of love
Thank you. It is hard to know how these kinds of poems will be received, and yet I must write them…or risk internal combustion. Love received.