Hogstooth

It’s lodged somewhere in my brain, the bullet that will kill me,
for it entered my skull eleven years ago, and has been digging slowly
through the thoughtful mush. I often wonder when
it will explode through the back of my head, bursting
like a leaden butterfly from a hard cocoon. I do not know.
I remember when I fired the bullet that will kill me,
just a boy of sixteen, aiming his rifle in every wrong direction,
and I know that it was the wrong thing to do, but you cannot
un-fire the bullet that will kill you. I can’t live forever. But as
long as I’ve got this bullet stuck somewhere in my head
like a plow in mud,
none of you can kill me.

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