Hello, I’ve returned.
So I started this poem with a line I wrote on a random scrap of paper. “I’ve been biting bullets to pick up this shattered glass.” I’m not sure where I wanted to go with that, maybe I thought it sounded cool in my half-asleep state. Regardless, this is what happened:
There’s Blood on my Hands and it’s Not my Fault
I’ve been biting bullets to pick up this shattered
glass. I grimace at the stinging of my cut palms, but I can’t leave
pieces behind. I pick up each piece, one by one, sliding them into my pocket with rebellious
recklessness. The metallic taste in my mouth is almost
more than I can bear, but I can’t spit out bloody
bullets into glass shards. My teeth crack—
break—like glass with every hit I take in someone
else’s name. As I wonder if it’s worth the pain
of gathering glass, I have a momentary
vision of what would happen if it had been the one I loved
kneeling in shards with bullets in mouth, rather than me.
Tears sting my eyes at the thought of someone I love
experiencing the pain of a sacrifice. Some say love feels like an arrow
piercing a heart. I pity those ignorant enough to think
love could be that painless.
I know it’s shorter than usual, but I hope that doesn’t take away from it. I spent longer on this, trying to get it perfect, than I did on the six (same) poems on Monday. Rip.
Anyways, thank you for reading! Have a lovely day!