Bullets and SunScreen

the ballistics of my words,

give me away,

smoke rings

and scratches of hesitation,

check the markings,

they look like

the gashes made

by a man clawing

his way from beneath.

roots and mud and

blood spilt against

the stones.

I've heard the sun

can dry my skin,

turn it to dust,

and a good breeze

can wash it all away.

I wish it didn't

always depend

on the weather,

but it does and

she needs daylight

to grow.

I'd give anything

to die.

and come back

as a nightlight that

makes it less dark

when she sleeps.