The revolver pressed against my temple
Is not a cry for help.
I don't want your fucking sympathy.
Or your scripted statements of concern.
You don't give a shit if I live or die.
I am a case number on your desk.

I am not sorry for a goddamn thing.
I don't care that my mother
Doesn't remember my name.
It does not matter at all
That nobody will miss me.

I was not abused.
I am not misunderstood.
Nobody is taking advantage of me.
There is nothing complex about
Not wanting to live.

I caress the trigger gently
It is the base of my final lover's
Erect cock.
I long for his release
To bring me mine.