I can't stop dreaming about being

shot in the head.

There is no pain— 

(I’ve never felt pain in my dreams, 

only the weight of its absence)

Instead there is pressure.

Concrete filling the bullet hole—  

blood hardening like cement. 

My thoughts cave in with the thunderous clap of the gun,

too heavy to keep me upright. 

I never die, but

I know I will soon. 

Fear sinks deep in my stomach

as the world fades around me,

curling in on itself like the edges of a burning photograph.

Soon there will be nothing left but cold ashes and the smell of smoke.

The shooter never aims for me, but it is always

my fault

when I’m caught in the crossfire. 

Either I’m too stupid or

too brave

to keep myself alive. 

I never realize which it is in time. 

Maybe one day I’ll fill my head with more than jagged bullet holes,

and the shot won’t matter because

I’ll wake up too light to be weighed down by blood.

Or maybe the gun will still fire— 

the red-hot tear of fear running through me as usual,

but this time I’ll be ready

and it won’t be

my fault.