The Firing Line Poem by Amelie Ison

When the gun points at that delicate spot
Between your eyes—
The point where I like to rest my lips—
I know you will not be afraid for your own death.
You would look down the barrel of the gun
Just to stare at the bullet;
To shake hands with your ‘bringer-of-death'
Before it has a chance to destroy you.
Your only wish, as the bullet you never feared
Hurtles towards your head,
Is that: although it may rip you limb from limb,
It won't harm the one who loved you.