My heart is a gun.
I have a permit, but it makes you nervous
when you see my gun in public.
You’re certain there’s a bullet with
your name on it,
but the bullet’s for me.
Any minute now your name will be
in my brain forever.
Can a bomb come from the heart?
Is my heart a bomb?
Are you going to label me
a terrorist for feeling something?
My heart doesn’t pump blood.
It pumps lead. It does not beat.
It explodes and leaves behind
You say to take it easy
and you don’t want any trouble.
You ask me to get rid of the thing
before someone gets hurt
I’ve tried that.
I hid it in a hole
in my mattress.
I locked it away in a lock box.
I put a flower in its barrel
I’ve spent nights emptying
the magazine into the air.
It’s too damn late.