Bullet Holes

Do you think about them?

Sometimes, she likes to think about bullet holes.

Dainty holes in thick skulls, giving way to blood and brain matter and life and death and it’s all the same anyhow.

When you’re living, you’re dying and when you’re dying, living doesn’t mean much.

Bullet holes.

Riddling torsos, skimming legs, burying deep into the spaces between ribs.

She thinks about them.

They think about her.

And so, who could blame her if she were to answer the summons?

The sweet whispers of high caliber bullets.

They tell her things;

tempting things,

beautiful things.

She traces the tip of her finger lightly around the edge of her own bullet hole.

It sinks deep into her thigh, nestling next to bone and burrowing underneath blankets of sinewy muscle.

It,

and this she believes to be true,

is surely the most beautiful thing she has ever seen.

And if that is true,

and it is,

why should it not be her god given duty to give such a beautiful thing to other people?

It would be the kind thing to do.

The right thing.

And so,

treasured gun in hand,

she will head out into the night,

a distinct limp making her gait uneven and dragging.

Bullet holes.

Soon, it will not only be she that thinks about them.

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