Buckshot blast
legs trembling to hold me up.
Fall to the ground in a puddle of red,
the color of love.
Hunted for sport?
A trophy for the wall?
Doe-eyed, pleading with you to say.
Why you took my heart
and wasted the rest.
Left on the cold ground
for buzzards to pluck.
And you, and she
feasting on my heart.
Drinking my salty tears
that leave you even thirstier.
The last of my kind.