Gun Firing; My first time.

Guns are fragile.  
Father's hands are sandpaper,  
But he wears gloves when meeting guns,  
Lifting them; the priest with his relics.  
Tiptoeing, watching his weight around them.

My father threw me once—a drunken night, but the weather was warm. There was no storm, but I was frozen in a hurricane, our home, a ship in turbulent seas, Mother and the Sierra Madre. The only untouched space by the storm was its eye, where the guns were. I killed him. I don't know how many bullets, but the trigger called for my touch, echoing loudly in a cave. Suddenly, it's quiet—I've swum and drowned in waves, I've reached the eye.

Guns are fragile.  

My father places them in a velvet box,  

A big velvet box,  

A big velvet, red box.

My mother, a soft-faced woman. My mother is a soft woman, perhaps the reason his fist mistook her for a punching bag. But she is soft. I lay on her lap, human hair brush, humming her favorite jazz,  her voice a trumpet, and a flute. However, I think my mom can only sing; she never spoke about my dad's fist. Whenever I feel small after getting trampled, rolling on the floor, a played golem, the child is my father; I would lay my head on mom and cry a river. And then my skin would be as cold as metal; my father's guns and my mother would be red; she is like a velvet box.

Guns are fragile.  

My father would bring his guns,  

Their weight like my lungs if you'd ask me.  

I never understood why he would tire himself,  

But he laughs with his friends, holding his gun.

I never achieved anything in life, but I'm youthful, my mother said. It was always a problem; I'm a retard with nothing but bones, to my father. I never understood why being bony is bad. I never understood why being thin and bloodless is shameful. I don't want to bleed like my mom, fed with nutritious lunch, drinking blood at night. I'd rather be a bone that dogs gnaw on, at least I can feel their sharp hunger, not the reeking alcohol that only whispers against plain metal.  

But I was once held gently by those calloused hands, "She was eating ice cream. Hell, her tongue works!" Like his gun, I was shining; there was no sun, but I was glowing. Perhaps I was joyful feeling my dad's hand caress me while surrounded by laughing men. They were happy because of me, finally!

Guns are fragile.  

And so are humans.  

Sixteen people were killed,  

A shooting mass.

Barefoot, I was running in the forest. When I was eight, my father asked me to mimic the dog. "Run in the woods, fast, play!" he shouted, and his friends positioned their guns. I ran, I was crying, but father told me to laugh. Broken chords and legs. I was shot like my dog, Fred. I watched my father pick the bullet not far from my blood. My eyes were wide, watching him celebrate and win the wager. At eight, I was shot.

Are guns fragile?  

Human flesh and ego—  

I could name many,  

But are guns fragile?

I fell to the ground, finding myself in my room. 'Guns can kill?' My blood whispered secrets; Those polished, pampered guns can kill? These gleaming sentinels can kill? This shiny harbinger can kill? Eyes falling shut, bruised lips, fevered brow; My feet wandered and my hands now held a pistol, 'This can kill?' My feet were cold, I knelt to close my father's eyes. He rests now, but it's okay. I will lay him in a velvet box, as red as his sixteen bullets.