I am afraid he'll hurt himself she said.
I'm scared.
What if it goes off, explodes.
The children might find it.
It might find me.
I'd look at it when I felt dangerous,
Curious if anyone'd miss me.
I walk away, heavy.
I never wanted to be like uncle eddie,
Kurt Cobain.
I still looked.
Tomorrow still hurt, I looked.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BY NICK FLYNN
One boyfriend said to keep the bullets
locked in a different
room.
Another
urged
clean
it
or it could explode.
Larry
thought I should keep it
loaded
under my bed,
you
never know.
I bought it
when I didn’t feel safe.
The barrel
is oily,
reflective, the steel
pure, pulled from a hole
in West Virginia. It
could have been cast
into anything, nails
along the carpenter’s
lip, the ladder
to balance the train.
Look at this, one
bullet,
how
almost nothing it is—
saltpeter sulphur lead Hell
burns sulphur, a smell
like this.
safety
& hammer, barrel & grip
I don’t know
what I believe.
I remember the woods
behind my father’s house
horses beside the quarry
stolen cars lost in the
deepest wells,
the water below
an
ink waiting to fill me.
Outside a towel hangs from a cold line
a
sheet of iron in the sky
roses
painted on it, blue roses.
Tomorrow it will still be there.
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