He finally falls.

His right eye is bruised,

his shirt torn.

Blood seeps from his arm,

dirt coats his face.

The boy with the gun moves closer.

He raises his head,

looks straight past the gun,

into the boy’s eyes.

He whispers something,

and the boy pulls the trigger.

As the gunshot echoes,

the words play over and over,

in the boy’s head.

The words he always wanted to say,

but never could.

The words that pushed him,

to pull the trigger.

“I love you.”


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