The Bullet

She sits on the chair,
Staring out at the blackness,
Her hand reaches up and touches the cold glass of the window,
All she wants is to be on the outside,
To be able to look in at the dark house, untrapped,
She watches the window fog up as she breathes,
And fade away bit by bit,
Her hand slowly slides down the window,
Her eyes stay still,
Fixed on the sight of the full moon,
Letting its brilliance absorb all her thoughts,
She blinks and is reunited with reality,
Again she blinks and a lonely tear follows,
Her head is pounding, pounding,
She closes her eyes and allows her head to drop,
Opening her eyes she begins to slip out of her unreal state of mind,
Staring down at the floor she sees the blood,
And gradually realizes what she has just done,
There is a bullet in her head.

*I couldnt think of a good title for this poem-if you can think of a better one please let me know---or if you think the title fits the poem OK! thanks---*