Don’t Ask Me

Don’t ask me why I didn’t run — against
my cheek a silver gun. My sister’s sobs
are all I hear, another gun inside
that fear. Momentum only breaths and throbs.

Don’t ask me why I got inside — a life
at stake that isn’t mine. A gunpoint push
becomes a backseat crawl. Regret is rife.
All else becomes so small, huddled hush.

Don’t think you know why I complied. The swing
of metal, taste of blood. His chide: “you’ll die.”
Don’t question me at 25, the things
I did to stay alive — and I survived.

Unless you’ve faced the darkness and a gun,
don’t tell me what you think I should have done.

Photo Credit: kostyavacuum Flickr via Compfight cc

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