Magnoscope

I'm cleaning my boyfriend's pistol when he says something that pisses me off.
Again.
Perhaps it was trans rights, socialism, or homelessness -
about the only thing we agree on is gun ownership.
So when I say pistol, I mean it literally.
In my lap rests a Magnum Revolver, a field-stripped
Smith & Wesson 686 .357
On either side, a pair of loaded Sig Sauers are lying,
patiently waiting their hour.
Proper firearm safety dictates that I keep the barrel firmly down,
away from other people,
no matter how much they're angering me,
or how many bullets lie waiting.
So I raise only my voice, not my hands.

Nonetheless, his stance becomes a little defensive,
and he tells me about the time his friend went ballistic,
so he locked the latter out to avoid a more literal incident,
possibly involving ballistic forensics.

And I think to myself... god!
Dating dudes sucks!
Cuz Twenty One Pilots and my ex girl both underestimated us,
it's not just our hands, it's our tongues!

If I said "domestic" ----
and let if hang in the air,
what springs to mind?
Does it rhyme with ----
silence, the same that stymies solving the crime?
I paused for a beat there,
but what beat cop cares if they hear reports of a beating?

Now I'm tryna explain all this to him,
and I feel some kinship with my ex cuz when I was filled with ignorance
she had to slow it down, rehash, expound upon
but then,
she'd probably feel much more like him
to see me lose my temper again
blast off thoughts I ought to lock within
what can I say, I'm obstinate
so I insist he pass back the cleaning kit

On one hand, I know I would never
unload on him like I did with my brother or my mother
or the cops that I fought when I thought that a taser wasn't major
But on the other hand...
I'm clutching a fucking gun
and doing a good impersonation
of a bad person.

But it's ok, I promised I'd never shoot him and we're still friends.
He apologized for being douchey -
at least in my head -
and we may start a punk rock band.
When I told him that I'd penned this,
he asked if I referenced
the moment I recollected
a time scars on my arms marked my record
before requesting a loaded weapon, but
honestly I don't remember
I've held my life in my hands more times than a gun
the former is boring while the latter is fun
and when all's said and done,

he left early for work,
me curled in the mid-morning sun.
I awaken incredulous - he was content
with just two guns from his under-the-pillow cache.
And I wonder which would make her more uncomfortable -
being alone with me, or knowing I was alone with even one slug.

But, as crazy as it sounds, I'm doing better.
So, for just a moment, I hold it in my grip,
but not between my lips.
That isn't how you clean a pistol.