I want a gun.
Not to use on myself or anyone else, but just to have. To be able to take out the cartridge and place the muzzle in my mouth, to taste the sharp metallic taste of death. To feel the cold handle in my hands and know that that, at least, is solid and real. To know that I have this choice after another year of not-quite-good-enough, ten, fifty.
I want a gun not to kill myself, but to know that I could.
