The problem is my mouth and how it is two parts of a gun,
the safety and the trigger
When I clench my jaw to use neither, I lower my weapon,
unlatch my tongue from the roof of my mouth to keep grace
The problem is how I forget that the distance you
take before me, doesn’t make you a moving target
When I am undone by a joke that doesn’t tease your laughter-lines
it is because rubber bullets still hurt
My fingers have no civility for sign language but yes,
when I hold them up and step outside of your bullet-proof embrace
I mean to surrender, to give up the entire weapon,
show you my underbelly and ask you in the name of forgiveness to draw blood.
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This is my 30th Sober Sundays, no skips! To celebrate with me, please share it.
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