Words are Rifles

Your voice is a violin,
but your words are rifles.
And when I listen for the sweet sound,
I feel the shells rip my torso.

Your eyes are water,
but your stare is a bloodpool.
I fell into the lake,
so thick I couldn't see anything under.

Your hands are the ocean
but your fists are the tidal wave.
The calmness is a lure,
and I take the bait again.

The fall takes a second,
but it feels like a hundred years.
A hundred years in your memory
Is a century in decline.