She's trying to outrun the silver bullets,
the ones ricocheting off metal through her hair
as she tries to get out of the crossfire.
But is anyone truly faster than a bullet?
The ones that were knocked down by her side
dropped like raindrops, left untouched until tomorrow.
And bullets don't discriminate targets.
They won't stop if you are not guerrilla or de la Fuerza de El Salvador.
If they miss and go through the thin walls—
that's just collateral.
But even as she runs she doesn't know if she'll make it to cover in time before the sun sets on her a little too early, a little too soon.
And she can't hear the children crying anymore. The bullets and explosives are louder—
or maybe it's just that they can't cry anymore.
And when the rain starts pouring she starts slipping and sliding, unable-to-breathe-because-the-guns-are-still-loud-and-she's-not-there-yet.
She was fast but no one is faster than a bullet.
Right through her head,
fallen only inches from home.
So what if one more body joins the streets?
YOU ARE READING
Poetry: My Overthought Thoughts
PoetryMy overthought thoughts of the universe-or stuff I wrote when I got bored. I wrote some of these years ago so some are meh but others are more recent. Would love to hear your thoughts 👍🏼 because I'm not sure where I'm going with this either :) I a...
