Loaded

Holding to the grip

of a loaded gun—

is it protection

or prophecy?

My fingers curl

around the cold promise of control.

Something solid.

Something final.

Something that says

you won’t hurt me again.

But control

can be an illusion

with teeth.

Sometimes what feels like safety

is just fear

disguised as strength.

Sometimes what feels like power

is only pain

looking for a louder voice.

Will it save me

or leave me in the mud?

Will it guard my heart

or bury it deeper?

Because anything held that tightly

long enough

starts to shape the hand.

And I don’t want to become

the thing

I’m gripping

to survive.

Maybe salvation

isn’t in the weapon.

Maybe it’s in loosening

my fingers—

choosing to walk away

before the echo

decides my future for me.