I have my hands on a gun,
loaded and lukewarm,
I see a bullet up ahead,
one lodged in my head,
when I gaze into the glass of my bathroom mirror,
which looks so much like the one we had in our house.
It was my house,
but you made yourself at home,
soft, sentimental blanket on the bed,
that would always tell me I was beautiful when I needed it most.
I have my hands on a gun,
just one wrong move,
and I could lose my mind,
losing lives,
but it feels like the bullet is already gone,
and I just stand at the mirror,
that looks so much like the one we had in our house,
gazing,
the plaything of fate.
I have my hands on a gun,
aiming at all the wrong places.
I put it down,
but its shadow stays,
heavy in my hands.
