My father was a bayonet.
My mother was gunpowder.
I was born
as a bullet fired from its chamber
aimed at the enemy's heart.

Cautious eyes never see
my burning hands before I
rip them apart
for I do not know what I am doing.
Agressive fists swing
toward my barbed wire skin,
but even the luckiest hands
lose their fingers.

I am not a time bomb
set to explode;
rather, I am shrapnel
from my bayonet father
and my gunpowder mother.

So, if you get too close
expect a fallout
and listen for my voice
in the reverberation:

*I do not know what I am doing.