H.

I haven't slept since  
I hooked up that used ceiling fan
circularly hurdling
caught in the motions of consequence
upon the flick of a fucking switch.
 
That same ceiling fan
hanging by bare wires
on a 22 degree tilt
barely scraping the ceiling paint
of the ceiling that  
tolerates its dead weight.
 
Like me, that crumbling second hand ceiling fan
still has its uses, serves its intended purpose even.
And that's why I can't stop staring at the fucking thing
Like an evaporating mud pool on the sidewalk
it becomes an oil spot
staring, strangling the inner most darkness of my soul
toying with my putrid secrets  
 
A feeling of disgustipation  
 
Turning my attention to the pin
the magazine, and the final round
I engrave my name into it,  
settling with that distinctive click.
 
With a cast off of blood, I pulled the trigger.