40, 39, 38...

How many times have people used a pen or paintbrush because they couldn’t pull the trigger? - Virginia Woolf

plus one.

two

count your fingers and your toes and when you’re done have a moment of silence for the soul of the deceased you were too busy counting to notice.

plus three. every forty seconds.

thirty nine seconds left to save a life but you’re no hero just a meek civilian harboring a murderer you like to call vocabulary. make it seem like there’s no communication without it don’t you know that still drugs with all the dealers behind bars, cartels operated by those with badges. The drugs grew legs and run wild in every blood stream, rivers of death flowing within us.

skipped thirty nine - must’ve been a scrumptious meal for seven.

thirty six - truth be told those forty seconds have passed i’m just numbering it to keep your interest going like i know what i’m doing because for some reason we like to act like acting like we know what we’re doing gets us anywhere when at the end of the day it’s nothing but acting so is it really my fault for not liking the script? is it really my fault that i can’t burst into song and file my taxes, it’s time for my monologue but my insides are shouting... at least i’m not dancing - other people have it worse. but my insides are still burning.

thirty five.

seven must be hella patient because five times and it’s still going? by my fifth time i was sick of gasping for air, waiting for my lungs to collapse. the mere thought of another breath would’ve been enough to trigger an aneurysm.

i’d keep on counting but i’m out of ammo. i have to reload. the pencil won’t sharpen itself now will it?