I’ve been shot but not really
I’m crying but not bleeding that heavy
I didn’t pull the trigger but it is all self-inflicted really.
The guns of the world
Hold little bullets
With exit wounds only the size
Of scars and scabs.
They litter the battlefield of bodies
With their little bullets.
They’re so small but just big enough
To stop your heart.
Just small enough for no one to ever notice.
The problems of the world, they eat away at you too
Until you have yourself believing
That you caused your own exit wounds.
The problems of the world manage to convince you
That there is no way to soothe your worries or escape reality
Unless you pull those bullets from your skin with prying fingers.
You pick your own skin until you made your body a battlefield
Hoping that those little bullets and the problems they bring
Might just leave through your exit wounds.
But they stay.
Poem and photography by Hazel J. Hall
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