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?
Call me, crazy.
