Washed of it

Last time I stitched myself up
and let’s say I got
and lock-jaw
and thick spit
which filled me to choke on for years,
I plunge my fingers through the stitches again
in fishing for the bullet before fully closing the wound
to heal
to heal I have to empty first.
I dig and my fingers reach it and sometimes push it further
and it scrapes bone
but I dig
and I can finally clasp the bullet between two fingers
but in the pinch my hand is stuck in my own flesh.
And I will never truly be empty, even if it’s I within myself.
It seems I will never be as
and safe from the eye as I was
in boy’s clothes and kid body.
When I was afraid of lightning storms.


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