This continues with my obsession with the western.

A light irons against my noes, illuminating the blood
emptying out into the troughs. The townsfolk
can see a parchment pinned-up beside my body
finally pinning-down what exactly it was
that I did with those two pistols and a black horse.

It reads:
“the sonobitches have finally found me
maybe this time they'll end this rightly
one of my pistols is cockin' wrong
the dirt of this goddamn place
is getting in the only things that I trust
I only got me thirteen bullets left
enough to take a few sonobitches
with me when I go to hell.”

A hole in my forehead, above my left eye,
cries blood, like a red-speckled child lost in a circus.
There's this pressure on my brain I can feel;
I want to cuss and scream, but I know that my woman
won't be there to slap me up when I do.
What good is bad, when goodness isn't there to tame it?

It reads:
“I've seen the angel of death
he's got snake eyes”

You'd swear that I cherished this. That I wanted this shit
But I don't. I'm secretly no more than a
clean-shaven, suit wearing, church going, lover of his wife
and maybe that's why I'm such a cruel son of a bitch?

She whimpers and she cries,
as all her ears can hear, are bloody cuss words
teeming from my mouth;
cursing her and everything to hell.

I have a moment of clarity in a dust storm:
I will wear my best suit, think of her
changing out from a nightgown into a Sunday dress,
flowers and petals still connected to their stems.”

It reads:
“I love you, my wife.
I hope you're still proud of me
no matter what I've done.”

“I'm here.”
I enjoyed this. Not much else I can say, sorry if you want a crit.
Today I feel electric grey
I hope tomorrow, neon black