I have left a handful of bullets from you,
I have held them dear to my heart,
i treasured them,
as a seashell treasures sand.
I held them in my fingers,
whilst i moved beneath my shadow,
and sharpened my mouth on cut glass mouths,
pretty from dark ***, on a night for scotch,
and let fine tobacco smoke me out from the inside,
whilst hands tried to write their stories on my skin.

I have broken many mirrors of my face,
I broke each, one, of them.
I smashed each piece of silver for each piece,
it couldn't give me in return.
For even a window would have given a prettier view,
i held many a head in my hands looking for some recognition,
many a glazed eye of which i could reflect from,
and paid the blind to paint what they could see,
pulled many hearts apart to see what it, could,
possibly look like to be, me.

I have dreams of what gun you would choose,
if you would bring one,
to this dog fight, of this bed in my room,
where you get to see the tobacco-skinned rags, of me.
For my bullets are only good when they scar the skin,
and something is left behind, to stare at,
for those who want to trace poetry from my heart,
and use their fingertips to paint over bruises,
don't forget to bring the blind with their brushes,
and the silvers of glass to make sure,
i feel myself,
reflecting here,
once you leave.