There are things in me.
Things I can’t write – not yet.
Writing these things is good.
Good like tweezing a bullet out.
Good and feels good are not the same.
Pain is living death.
Opening wound can take life.
“Leave bullets where they be,” I say.
Skin grows up over them.
But you’re not protecting me.
“Extract it, damn it, now.” I yell at me.
Tweezin’ it out.
Still. So still.
Breathing in. Breathing out.
In and out.
Clot in region three.
It’s toxic, the metal object within me.