He yelled through anonymous numbers
Into a patient voicemail inbox
Letting it echo, ruminate and marinate
In the space between sender and receiver
But he doesn’t know.
How you’ll eat the end of that shotgun
How you’ll chew on the metal tip
Let the sharp edges crunch under your molars
Chipping your teeth on its rounded edges
Feel the metallic taste in your spit
As you swirl its pieces with your tongue.
The moon made you crave the feral ferric
That his weak heart could never handle.
He doesn’t know your jaw is stronger
Than any weapon he’s ever carried.
Eat the end of a shotgun
And spit bullets from your pursed lips.
Wax Poetic by Julia Johnson 