handfuls of air

I killed another old man last night,

blew his old brains out right here

in front of the bathroom mirror

where I usually do it.

He wanted to die.

He didn't say it but I knew

that's what he wanted, desperate,

barely hanging onto his life.

I loaded my weapon and watched

the back of his skull in the mirror:

my face and his obsolete skull.

The face is mine, not his.

He doesn't deserve it anymore.

His future is faceless.

I cried but I didn't mean to,

the salty bullets on my tongue,

the taste of what I would lose.

I wasn't afraid; I'd done this before.

The silent transition then his blood

dripping into the drain. I

was exhausted but it was done.

The dead are not missed,

just bodies piled up into the past.

I tasted the blood and it was sweet,

not bitter. The good thing is

the aftertaste of death is sweet.