I feared I couldn’t let you touch me without ruining me,
so I didn’t let you touch me at all.
It’s when you’re on the brink of something
that you lose your balance.
When my body can’t bring itself to say what it needs to,
my heart plays Russian Roulette with my throat.
I swear bullets tore through me all of those nights
they went right through me, the marks are still here.
They refuse to fade
like the one, from your teeth, on my hand.
Someday, I’ll show you the bullet I would have taken for you,
after time has done the wash.
I’ll take it out of the jar of missed opportunities.
We’ll hold it up to the light.
You’ll roll it around your mouth like a fallen tooth perhaps.
I won’t forgive you exactly,
but we’ll laugh about how small it is.
We’ll wonder how such a short thing
could ever have meant so much.