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
heart-shaped shrapnel.

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
every day.
I’ve spent nights emptying
the magazine into the air.
It’s too damn late.