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.