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The pages are smudged with gun oil and sweat. Tomorrow, I'll load one live round. Not to fire. Just to know the difference between a primer that sparks and a heart that still can.
Tonight, I wrote: "I am the misfire that keeps walking."
The Cartridge Diary
I keep the .22 on the nightstand. Not for defense. For weight. Every morning, I eject the cylinder, spin it, and whisper the names of people I failed to save. The click of the hammer on an empty chamber is my confession. A primeshot with no powder. Just the sound of mercy not taken.
They say a diary records what happened. Mine records what I almost let happen.
If you're reading this, I finally pulled the trigger. Not on myself. On the ghost.
The primers are gone. Not the ones in the gun—those I keep polished, a ritual for my sanity. I mean the ones in my head. The first shots.
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The pages are smudged with gun oil and sweat. Tomorrow, I'll load one live round. Not to fire. Just to know the difference between a primer that sparks and a heart that still can.
Tonight, I wrote: "I am the misfire that keeps walking."
The Cartridge Diary
I keep the .22 on the nightstand. Not for defense. For weight. Every morning, I eject the cylinder, spin it, and whisper the names of people I failed to save. The click of the hammer on an empty chamber is my confession. A primeshot with no powder. Just the sound of mercy not taken.
They say a diary records what happened. Mine records what I almost let happen.
If you're reading this, I finally pulled the trigger. Not on myself. On the ghost.
The primers are gone. Not the ones in the gun—those I keep polished, a ritual for my sanity. I mean the ones in my head. The first shots.
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