I pass you the knife and my gun.

I take off my immunity – my bulletproof vest.

I take my heart out of its case

Taking it out, I lay it on the line,

I don’t blink – I can’t breathe.

I know I can trust you, yet my voice still shakes.


You hold the knife, analysing it critically.

You measure its weight and move in from hand to hand.

You grin and drop it, letting it clatter to the cold ground – useless.

I smile slowly, knowing it’ll soon be over.

You stare at the gun and something flickers in those eyes.

You point your finger and rotate it – telling me to turn.

I do as you ask without a word. I turn around and wait.

I wait and wait, but nothing happens.


My heart is beating, telling me something isn’t right.

I feel it then. Someone’s pushing me back.

I turn around shocked, but you’re standing behind me,

Your eyes wide in shock.

I look down at my chest and realization dawns.

You stabbed me.

You drew my weapon and shot me.

You. Shot. Me. Through. The. Chest. With. My. Own. Gun.


I would’ve have done anything for you.

I stare at my chest in wonder.

I'm watching the blood pool at my chest.

I'm watching my death yet there's nothing I can do to stop it.

You are horrified as you watch me stagger away from you.

I would have stepped into the line of fire for you –

Taken a bullet right through my chest for you.

But sometimes, the person you’d take a bullet for is

The one pulling the trigger.