III

Poetry
No, don't start.  
 
Baby is a bullet  
traveling up the barrel  
to taste the thick rough wet roof of my mouth.  
 
Your smile is shining, but your teeth are curved away.  
 
Baby, you're a bullet  
ruining me with a bang  
of sounds of her in your bed.  
 
Your new girl looks like your ex; now I know your type.  
 
Bullet, you're my baby 
too far away from me to touch  
your cold dark shell, hot in my head.  
 
You told me it was inevitable. I don’t know why you bothered to begin. 
 
Bullet is a baby  
held precious in the center 
of my chest, along with the nurture of regret.  
 
Next week I'll be in town; will you meet me?  

One thought on “III

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