I Painted An Image With Her Blood

The cold steel caresses her face
And the lead kisses her temple.
Transfixed in her image,
I am taken back by the half-second it takes
For the bullet to pierce her skin
And watch her fall to the floor.

I have searched for an explanation
As to why she had to die.
The personality of her soul was painted a bright red
Until she wrote her own conclusion,
In which she lived happily ever after.

Nothing can bring her back.

The cold steel caresses my face
And the lead kisses my temple.
Transfixed in my own image,
I wait for that half-second.
The bullet never did piece my skin
And I never fell to the floor.

I have searched for an explanation
As to why I cannot die.