You are a bullet,
harmless, fascinating, daunting -
when unprovoked and on your own.
Except maybe a choking hazard.
Nice to touch and feel on my skin, but cold.

Give you power,
or a gun,
your aim is never accurate but
deadly all the same.

I can replay it - you charging
at the TV with incredible speed -
in slow motion.
The sound that followed was deafening.
It was an ear ringing, catastrophic explosion.
It was your fist meeting the screen,
us screaming and me crying,
on my cut up and bruised knees,
begging for you not to leave.

I had a tendency to chase after bullets
and a desire to fix the mess they would create.
I didn’t realise that I was the one being chased.
And that I was my mess I had to clean up.

I’ve stopped going after bullets.
(But now I play with fire.)