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PERSONAL ESSAY | POETIC PROSE
An Ode To The Guns In My Life
How they entered (and left) my life
** Trigger warning: This article discusses themes of gun violence and its related mental health issues which may evoke strong emotional responses. **
I. All guns are not the same. Some guns are red-blooded and warm to the touch. The gun that fired from twenty feet behind me as I walked; this gun was hot. Hot from being hidden in a pocket, covered by a hand to disguise its outline, and likely moist with perspiration for lying in wait so long.
A Caracas summer afternoon is when heat and desperation rise to unbearable heights; this gun was no exception.
Blood circulates through steel when a gun is this hot, pulsing with acquired humanity and all its ruthless passion. The pistol felt the panic; the gun was eager to jump, and everyone involved was ready to flee.
The bullet that left this gun would have been a flame, a lightning bolt bottled up and released in my direction.
Recollections are full of distortions. My distortion tells me I heard its wind pass over my shoulder, though I don’t recall the thunder.
Not all lightning bolts hit the ground; they often stay airborne in a garish beauty, but we all know the…
