He said that I was always ready to fire and flee, that my shoes were always right nearby, and that I was always ready to run. The first night we spent together he wrapped his arms tightly around me and whispered “you can put away your guns now and breathe.” I tried to laugh softly, lightly, but my voice shook when I whispered back “I don’t have a gun.” He responded “yes you do,” as he curled my body closer, turning me to him, covering my mouth with his. In that moment we began breathing together.

The next morning I lay awake next to him, watching him sleep, watching the rise and fall of his chest, and the peace that radiated from his skin. I wanted to sleep, I wanted to feel safe, I wanted what he seemed to have.

I wanted to stay there next to him.

But my bags were already packed, my gun already loaded. We made promises and I pinned hopes on them, but I knew deep down that I would keep running away. I felt too broken for him to mend. I wanted to give away the gun, throw the bullets in the sea, and take back that scared little girl who kept me racing away into the distance. I wanted her to let me let go. And, I wanted him to chase after me (he didn’t).

9 Crimes (live) :: Damien Rice

One thought on “Give my gun away when its loaded

Leave a Reply