Bullet Wound

Sometimes we let love get in the way of our own well being.

You shot me.
I felt the bullet enter my chest,
And exit through my left shoulder blade.
In shock, I stared into your dancing eyes,
The way they laughed at me.
Then I fell into a crumpled heap,
At your feet.

My head drifted to the side,
As I watched the blood pour from my wound,
The crimson liquid collecting in puddles in my hair.
Finally my heartbeat slowed,
As did the blood flow,
And I tapped in time as it dripped on the floor,
From my dead, bony fingers.

You shot me.
In spite of this,
I let you pull me up.
I let you apologize.
I let you hold me and stroke my matted hair.
I let you mop up the blood,
Wash my clothes,
And bleach the stains.

Once you’d tucked me warm in my bed,
And I finally felt okay again,
Like I could trust you,
You pulled out your gun,
And you shot me again.