Author: Morgan Freya

[written in 2009]

Bang bang. He’s a bullet. Sharp and smart, not like a lot of guys you’ll find these days. He tries to keep the lies loaded and tell only truths to your face, but it’d be a lie if he thought he could do it. The kind of guy that ends only the dirtiest of fights and kisses only vulnerable girls. But what a sweet kiss it can be. Then he walks away smiling the fakest of smiles just to help pass the day while no one visible sticks a foot out to break a common ritual. Telling jokes to get laughs that proves he hasn’t lost it yet- and it hasn’t lost him, while the most important people in his life might have.

Bang bang. He’s a bullet and he doesn’t know it. He plays the big shot, pushing everyone aside. Never settling to ride shotgun. He’s got a grin like a Cheshire cat when he’s feeling devious right before he jumps the gun, going off half-cocked and trying to keep a stiff upper lip as she attempts to bite down on his shell. Holding it in her teeth like a trophy. She spits him out on the pavement like a bitter aftertaste while a scared little one pulls the wool over his eyes in a game of war.

Bang bang. He’s a bullet and he loves it. He can’t break your heart but he’ll run right through it. Make you lose your breath. And when he’s gone all you have left is a hole where he cut for a split second. The worst part is, there’s no retrieval policy to get him back. She had to learn the hard way that it’s a one-shot kind of deal, so maybe she should stop yelling at him and step off ‘cause anywhere he goes is a hazard and he knows it. She can only bring him closer just to send him off again.

Bang bang. He’s a bullet and he’ll wipe the smile off your face just as quickly as he put it there. But he’s intoxicating and addicting and he’s absolutely beautiful. And that may be the one thing about himself that he’s still not so sure of. And he’s always there to catch you when you trip and fall. He’s got your back so well he’s almost in your back even when you don’t have his nearly as well. And he’s always got a word to speak to make you think when the tears are falling and there’s nothing to say. He’ll put you in the situation where you can’t feel as guilty as you want to for having him when he can’t even find himself. But you know you’d jump in front of him to save him from himself when his mind is racing and out of control. He says it’s always an accident.

Bang bang. He’s a bullet and nothing more than a bullet in a world of loaded guns.

Prompt: write about the contents of the box you will leave behind when you die.

[written in 2012]

 

unlabeled

carelessly attached to the remnants

of my first car, totaled

never to be driven

handle hanging off to display

things you’ve seen, distant

as if through glass walls

windows

and if you ever get the nerve to touch them

they will speak in softest tones and

life I couldn’t finish and in

my first car, totaled

never to be driven

a glove.

crumpled behind proof of insurance and

crusted with dried tears and granola bars

because I was sad and hungry and ironic and

gloves kept the space between my knuckles warm

when you weren’t sitting in my passenger seat

clutching onto the coat hook every time I turned down unfamiliar streets

for the sake of getting lost

a map.

for when those times getting lost and adventurous

turned into sticky turmoil

and we stopped recognizing the sidewalks and yellow lines and

tomtoms are too mainstream

we craved our front door opening

my favorite cd.

shattered like mirror sprinkles

on the dirtiest cupcake

reflecting the dustiest cobwebs and

your sweetest eyes

music never to be played

in the radio of

my first car, totaled

never to be driven

a love note.

eighty pages long- a love notebook.

each line written to somebody different

apologizing for my sudden absence

apologizing for being unable to accept replies

I’d been writing this for years should something tragic happen

and it must have

a blue traffic bump.

indicator of fire hydrants

helper of steady extinguishment

picked loose from the friction of heavy truck tires

thieved from communal safety by my envious hands

to sit in the cracked compartment of my glove box

I wish I’d ever been able to assist like that pathetic reflective blue square

stickers.

from the lady at the bank

in case you wanted to re-live our childhood together

and stick them on the windows

just to watch mom scrub them off

so we could smell the sweet orange of a chemical cleaner

used for things like removing stickers from windows and

taking the blood out of the fabric used to make the car seats of

my only car, totaled

never to be driven.