You are like a breath of mustard gas.
Crippling, agonizing, effective
for killing me quickly.
The internal violence that ensues
presents no outward symptoms to you.
Spouts of blood directly from my heart
should show you I cared if not for your blindness
from that thick goggled mask.
You’re running for your life in the other direction,
toward another girl’s spitting bullets,
forgetting its my photo you hold in that protecting Bible
next to your left side ribs
so close to that empty pump
You trust to keeps you alive, and moving
in a direction toward both of our deaths.