This is a poem I wrote because I am sad sometimes.
ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ
When you put a gun in your mouth, pull the trigger, and push a bullet through your brain, it doesn't stop at the back of the skull.
You'd think it would.
After all, there's a big bone plate there to diffuse the kinetic energy and reduce the acceleration to zero meters per second per second.
But that metal slug tunneling through your grey matter at 1,704 miles per hour is carrying with it a whole lot more than velocity.
When the iron ball lodges itself in the calcified zone of your cranial cavity, everything else keeps on going.
The self-hatred following that bullet like the wake behind a speedboat keeps going, bounces off the wall, and pierces your best friend through the heart.
He blames himself for what you did, thinks it's his fault. The hole in his chest will never fully heal.
The misery that sprays out the barrel vaporizes when it its your cerebral cortex and escapes on your last dying breath.
It spreads like a mist and settles over your family, leaving them with shattered dreams and empty picture frames.
The urge to hurt yourself that finally made you pull that trigger drops to the floor with the bullet's empty shell, bounces once, and skitters into the hallway.
Your little sister picks it up before turning the corner and seeing you slumped over in the bathtub with your brains smeared across the blue and white tiles on the wall.
So before you let loose that bullet, thinking it'll stop safely at the back of your skull:
Remember the ricochet.