Bullet by Rhiannon Mitchell
There is a bullet lodged in me
I think my shaking hands held the gun.
It must come out or else,
No chance for healing.
No one around, no aid to call for.
I try in vain to stop the torrent –
Crimson wet, soaking, drowning me,
Waterfalling over the aching wound;
A glint of offending metal
Buried deep between protesting ribs.
No one around. It must come out or else.
Shaking hands must punish and save.
If I have to dig it out with my fingernails –
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