Metaphors

My life was far from cloy 'til I was sixteen; just a boy or something similar, but poised and contorted. Then I was twenty-one. I kissed the barrel of a gun, and for it sputtered symphonies of feral noises. Since, I've not spoken at all; I framed my brains upon the wall, and left my mouth moving alone beneath the pillow. Soon, I'm turning twenty-two, November cold and midnight blue, into a grave when my neck snaps beneath the willow.