The Journey of a Bullet

A loud bang

A vacuum

And then nothing but the void

The emptiness of space.

A gaping hole in the back of my skull

An air vent for my corpse

A hole big enough for the doctors to put back in what was blown out.

The undertaker will be proud presenting this beautiful corpse

Show off the porcelain face the bullet did not scratch

Make the fatal wound invisible.

The fatal wound

Leaves a stain on the wall

Paint over it before the buyers see the room

Where he did it.

Scrape off embedded parts of my skull

“He was only 26, such a waste”

Cold winds through the open window dry the paint

“What’s for dinner?”

Forgotten by the time the ad for frozen vegetables finishes.

30 seconds, here’s my soul.

The old lady boils the kettle for the cleaners

Next year will be better

The blood patterns portend a prodigious harvest of grain

It’s no coincidence the shot was fired on a full moon

The last wisps of bleach on the floorboards will be gone by tomorrow

Climb into the truck, turn the key.

26 years.  Not a wink, nudge, or second thought

Pass the remote.

It took 26 years.

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