my bleeding gun

This might be a peculiar thing to say,

for all your minds seem to be made the same way.

Your wooden joints

painted to resemble the colour of skin,

skin which is lost so long ago in history books

your life purpose it to try and mimic

this flesh and this strength

that people used to have,

and take it as a mask for your weakness.

But I can see under fine- painted acrylics,

under rotting wooden bone

and movements

that creak.

But we're figurines

with hearts,

whatever mad scientist decided long ago

to implant emotions in this doll body,

and whatever chance of god

that so many of us human prototypes

would survive the operation.

But emotions

are now embedded deep in skin and wood

without the need of anaesthesia.

And we thank those

from the skies

who cursed this land

with us creatures.

Little do you know,

with your sleight of hand

as instinctive as a bated breath,

that the gun you hold in your small fingers

doesn't care

like you do.

It doesn't care

like you do

about sexual orientation

or gender

or beliefs

or stupid things like that

because fear tastes the same

to the mouth of a bullet.

We all bleed the same,

and to the bullets you shoot

and to the gun you hold,

his blood

or her blood

doesn't taste any different.

Fear

isn't poisoned 

by the things you worry so much about.

Stop judging

by differences only your blind, white washed eyes can see.

Your bullet doesn't care.

Blood on wooden joints,

on flesh.

Blood which tastes of fear,

fear like poison.

Your bullet doesn't care.