The Bullet

The Bullet

How odd it is to be born to end life. I wear a metal jacket when it’s cold, but the coldness stings deeper than can be covered up. My journey from the barrel is a lifetime yet only lasts a second. My flight is death on a one way ticket. Like the snap of a whip I propel through the air. Everything blurs. The sky is deep blue, a storm is brewing. I guess no one will know me until I die. The city lights are streaking overhead. Children laugh and play on the sidewalk before me, hate rules behind me. The sound of my presence rushes far behind. I knew this was my purpose but it’s something I can’t handle. All my life I’ve been waiting for this death. I was meant for someone else, but meaning is empty when not on target. And I still wear responsibility like a cloak that doesn’t fit. Death approaches with an unfamiliar face. At a small girl it points and I don’t have a choice. The storm is overhead, and with its wind it groans in my direction. Death lets out a cry as I slam into the bricks. How badly I hurt, and yet how joyful I feel.

"Ernest Hemingway once wrote, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.' I agree with the second part." --Se7en