I shoot in the hands of angry people.
I die on the ground where blood is fresh.
I show no grace when quiet tells me not to.
I'm blamed for the wounds of soldiers at
war.
Casualties are in the hands of my
flashing swords.
Just, don't trigger me.

On the battlefield, the world seems gray. Lifeless eyes look down at bodies on the ground, and weak arms hold the weeping women. But, I am always there when anger is shown in the most saddest places. They use me as a weapon, and I am, I kill innocent people. I kill the words of courages boys, the sense of intelligent men, and the hope of lonely widowers. The hue and cry of our neighbors', and the screams that haunt, there's silence in the war. In the glimpses of gleam, there's silence that falls after a loud scream. There's a stoicism that lands on every weeping body after they've witnessed another fallen hero. To beg and plead me away, I must say, it won't work. There I am, in the pocket of a man's waistcoat. There I flee, with him and his anger.

Now, I stare in the eyes of
hopelessness. There, I see a flicker
of regret.
No matter how much I
want to protest, I'm in the control
of an angry man.
Now, I'm useful.
Another man down.

On the ground, they sky seems sad. The angels cry, and now the world is flooded with the tears of silent warriors. On the ground, there I am to blame. Somebody picks me up, and I'm in use again. But, I'm still in his hands once he falls dead to the ground. There's a silence that comes after you end your own war. There's a moment of stillness that covers peoples face when they see what has just happened, or the aftermath. Wisps of smog surround me, and somewhere in the thinness of air, a voice tells me,
"Thank you."
You damn fool.

I stay there fixed
with a sadness, the type
of sadness that can't be
overcome of.
Now, there's stories
told behind my trigger. And
I'm granted with, "Thank you's"
and, "Go to hell's"

There, I sit on an evidence table. People seem glum in the hospital room. Eyes are bare when they look at me. What can I do, though? I am the reason for the silence in war. I am the reason people don't talk, and I am the reason people draw chalk around me.
I want there to be peace.

The kids cower in the corner of a classroom, the lights are turned off and the windows covered up. A threat with me as the main thing.
I am the threat.

An angry man is something common, but an angry hand is something so scarce it glows against the sun. Hell, it even glows against a door that shields innocent people. I'm in use again. I cut through wood and I'm the strongest and scariest thing in the goddamn building.

Where do you think the innocence goes after a child sees the death of their classmate in an area that's guaranteed safety? Where do you think the trust goes after a child is said to hide in an area that tells you to stand out? It goes to ashes, because I'm that son of a bitch who takes the happiness from the happiest places. I wish to not be, so curse the hand that uses me for kill. In history, I was used for revenge, and may my legacy continue nevermore.  There's silence that falls after a happy place experiences what seems like a war.

I cry,
I weep the dust to
days that were cut
too short.
I curse,
I curse for my children
who curse quietly walking
into school.
I caress,
I caress the mouths
that roar fire.
Yes,
I am that soothing.

Use me for you will not shriek to the eyes that scream madness when you threaten and kill. Use me for you will not cry to the screams after. There is a silence that comes to the hands after they trigger. There's a silence in the knowingness of what had just happened. It is there no matter where you flee. Flee these walls for they will haunt you in every city you walk. I am there to poison you with coldness, and I will be there on the table when they give you your sentence.

I will break you,
mar the softness in your skin,
and euchre the lies that stain
your formidable lips.

It is the silence in war that keeps me afloat, because after havoc, you hear the truth the wind screams in the most deadly silent moments on earth. I am angry. It's is not me who kills, but the hands that grasp onto me with vengeance.

- The stories we don't hear in war, but the silence.

I love the stories that make you think. I think this is one of those stories. I've written many things that portray anger and resentment, but this story is the most poignant of all of them. This story goes deeper than just the fixed anger in a gun; it goes to the heart of how people use them and where they use them. I wanted to incorporate the different ways a gun can be used: in war, for self-harm, and against innocent people. All of these things have something in common, which is anger. I wanted to write this because I've always noticed that the word "gun" is always in a shooting's title. While that may make sense, the hands that triggered it are never mentioned in the title. This story also depicts time and how it evolves differently.
I want people to think about what they should be afraid of and what they should be blaming. I understand this may be controversial, but it is simply a decades-old resentment people may have for wanting a person to be blamed for their pain rather than the object itself.