Little Bullets


A song that crushes the soul reaches from the speakers like unfurling hands. It extends toward your sternum, tears through flesh, to the meat of it. It is a song of sorrow and the words kill as they permeate flesh and cartilage. There is nothing more intimate than this, no time you are more vulnerable. You submit to the melancholy of the melody and let go.

 She remembered the first time he socked an inanimate object instead of her face and all she saw was splintering wood; funny how memory works. Mahogany stuck in splintered fragments in her heart and brain matter, embedded in memory. This is when she started dreaming only of the present; the now is less elusive than past or future.

 He read her like he read a book. It was the subtle reading between the lines where all the truths are hidden. Not concise, black, and white—the untold. To him, her story was beautiful. 


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