A Bullet in The Hourglass

Photo by Jordan Benton on Pexels.com

Mental Illness and depression are difficult topics to discuss. Poetry has always been a safe space to explore deep emotions and thoughts. I understand these topic can be triggering for some, so this poem does come with a trigger warning because I do talk about suicidal thoughts and ideations. It is my hope that if you continue to read the poem and you or a loved one struggle with depression that you know you are not alone, you are loved, and it does get better. The most important thing is to seek help. Here are some resources from around the world:


Photo by Egg thing on Pexels.com
A bullet pierced the hourglass,
It melted the sand into tears of molten lava
And slowly hardened,
entrapping the ruptured metal inside an explosion,
perfectly contained,
as if time stood still before hell broke loose,

I eye the metal jacket,
smoke still coming from the gun in hand,
hoping for sand to bleed out,
for something in my life to go to plan,
Instead, I tap the edges of the hourglass,
fused by the heat of the bullet with the gun,
I took my finger off the trigger,
and touched it in disbelief,
it was hard as a rock with the bullet encased
in a singular glassy tear inside,

I took a deep breath, and raised my arm,
cocked the revolver back,
one eye on the glass, one in the chamber,
point blank range, no screw ups this time,
this one’s going to stick,
I inhale and then exhale,
one last breath before… the gun jams,

I go to unclog the revolver,
and the bullets dissolve into sand,
defeated, tormented, comically divinely mocked,
I fall to my knees and raise my hands to the heavens,
and yell, “God what do you want from me?”

The heavens break open,
and the sun shines a singular ray down on me,
The wind rustles and my heart heaves,
I hear a still quiet voice, almost a whisper,
which vanished as quickly as the morning vapor,
it told me to live to tell the tale,
so I own a bullet that pierced my hourglass figure,
it still lives wedged in my chest

There was no rhyme or reason just a hair trigger,
well actually there were a million reasons,
some justified, some that would make your toes curl,
all tragic, all if I told you, would garner your sympathy,
make you shake your head, and say what a shame,
but I’m not ashamed because
I chose to live that day until the sands run out naturally,
I don’t need your sympathy,
I only need to live to tell the tale

~ By Hyacinth Hale

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