No One Will Ever Know

I wrote this poem after I heard about the San Bernardino shooting, but it could honestly apply to whichever shooting you think of first. If you haven't watched the news lately, there have been a few. I know poems can't really fix anything, but I think they can help put things in perspective and point out the harshness of the truth.  This story is a complete work of fiction, but can be reflective of any number of real stories.

(Caution: while this is not unnecessarily graphic, it does not avoid reality.)

My life is over.

One twitch of a finger and I'm gone.

Galaxies of memories, experiences, feelings,

Gone before I could scream "Mercy."

My thoughts are precious,

My experiences are unique.

Now they are wasted, buried, splattered with my blood.

No one will ever know

How sad I was that I couldn't go home for Thanksgiving. 

How unhappy I was with my grades.

No one will ever know that I let them slip

Because I was too busy writing a novel.

My sister will never know that I was going to surprise her tomorrow. 

I will never get to tell my mom about my new boyfriend.

My boyfriend will never get to know if he loved me or not.

Because my blood is painted on the wall behind me;

A Jackson Pollock depiction of my death.

As you, a man I do not know

With galaxies of your own,

Hold a gun as if it isn't the Angel of Death

And I forgot to paint lamb's blood over my door today. 

You don't know my galaxies.

I don't know yours.

You never gave me the chance to learn. 

Instead, you introduced me to your gun.

It said hello and never left me with the time to say goodbye. 

9 millimeters isn't that big.

Certainly not as big as a galaxy.

9 millimeters is small,

Until it turns on you.

Then it is a black hole.