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I have carried all this guilt..

I have taken all his shit...

I always come back to him...

He hurts me so bad...

He yells all the time...

He makes me cry..

But Im the one with the gun..

Im not afriad to use it..

Im the one who keeps him line..

Im the one who he comes home to..

Im the one carring his child..

Hes not only hurting me..

But his self also..

For I behold the only part of him that has any meaning..

I carry his son..

I still hold the gun in my hand...

As I hold it up..

I point it to his head..

Am I crazy? Or am I protecting my baby?

Lets ask him..

As he shakes he laughs..

He thinks im kidding..

2 bullets in his leg..

He screams with pain...

as he lunges forward..

He grabs a knife...

I shoot him in the head..

9 months later..

A baby comes..

Whos father is dead.