Colt

It's there in my drawer.
Buried under ratty socks;
embalmed in an oiled rag.

To think that two days prior, this
odd weight was an unseen,
unwanted premonition.

It terrifies me. I loathe touching it,
though I must -lest it get out
of hand.

Can I still trust myself
with dark thoughts - again?
How can bloody knuckles and
cracked walls calm me:

Will my shadow, drunk one night,
take my arm hostage and point it
the wrong way?

But yet it is fear that drives me.
My window, still, a black trash bag where
glass should be. Glass where carpet should be.
An invasive grass growing in the plush.

What am I more afraid of?
My drawer won't move
(at least I hope)
and it's true I live alone,

but do I trust my double self?
or give the drawer a lock?

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8etyjj/first_post_and_first_time_asking_for_constructive/dxy0fsb/

https://www.reddit.com/r/OCPoetry/comments/8evu0u/getting_warm/dxyi2h9/