killthehostage

blow in through the door
like a ghost that is nice
my crosshairs align
and my grip is tight

my friends are bullets
that i shot at tin cans.
no feathers, no wings
no feet and no beeks
and no place to land.

when you finally come home
don't be surprised
if there's rust in my throat
and red in my eyes.

my friends are knives
that cut out my tongue.
no songs and no beats
no words left to speak
just utters and grunts.