Mother of pearl encrusted handguns with silver shined
accents of filigree and slicked back hammer and trigger
or sometimes she is the bullet
the entrance wound
you never saw approaching
the blood
visceral with metaphor
the stitch
pulling at your skin
or sometimes she is the frayed flesh
the exit wound
you never thought would come
the reverberation of sound
her leaving
the thought of violence
against silence
or sometimes she is the finger that pulls
the trigger
eased back to rest
the spatter
you created
the lodged remnant
causing phantom pains
or sometimes she is just a girl
with a cocked back hair trigger
rage, fingers itching to rip
out those who hold her
like a thing to be used.
Previously published in Hecate Literary Magazine.
Carrie Elizabeth Penrod received her MFA from Mississippi University for Women. She currently resides in Indiana with her cats. Her work can be read at Anti-Heroin Chic, Sad Girls Club Lit, Prometheus Dreaming, Button Poetry’s Instagram, and corn stalks.

