Shots


I went to a party

where shots were fired.

My stomach fell to the floor

as I left my friend

behind in the kitchen.

I selfishly bolted

as my ears rang

from that unmistakable sound:

pop

pop

pop.

I hopped the fence

that was out back,

and as my heart began pounding,

I ran alongside others,

hearing yells in the distance.

Gathering my friends,

relieved everyone was okay,

one car began circling around us.

‘Where’s the next addy?’

they slurred

and laughed as they sped away.

They acted as though

six cop cars

hadn’t just encircled the house

we were just in.

They act as though

this was a normal Friday night,

just another occasion.

Were my legs shaking

because it was 40 degrees out,

or because anxiety flowed

through my veins?

We were all okay,

but we’d never be the same.

I wrote this poem while in the back of the Uber taking us home after this event occurred. My friends were reliving the past hour during the car ride, and as they talked, I could still hear their voices shaking from the adrenaline that flowed through them. As they relived the event through conversation, I frantically wrote this poem, trying to entrap the feelings running through my head. I came from a neighborhood where teenagers drove around in their parents' BMW's and one didn't have to lock their door at night; safety was not questioned, to say the least. When one goes to a party, they expect shots of liquor, not actual bullets, and that is why I titled this piece "Shots".


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