Bullets and flesh
Bullets and flesh
Bullets and flesh,
the meeting is violent, sudden,
a brutal kiss that no one saw coming,
and I, stuck watching,
lost in the flash of impact,
the air cracking,
a scream cut off by the whisper
of a bullet too close to my ear.
It’s a sound that doesn’t just vanish;
it lingers, claws deep,
etching itself into my mind
like a parasite digging in,
like a wound that won't close,
turning silence into a graveyard
where memories of this moment live.
Every time I close my eyes,
it plays again,
the sound of life lost,
a door slamming shut.
One second, he was whole,
a person just breathing, walking,
a heartbeat moving through the cold.
I don’t know his name, his story—
I don’t know if someone loved him,
if someone waited for him to come home.
But in that second, none of that mattered;
he was just a body breaking open,
flesh splitting like paper,
as if life had no more room for him.
And then time cracked,
split down the middle,
and he was on the ground,
a tangle of limbs on concrete,
falling like he was finally giving up,
like the street was calling him home,
like there was no reason left to fight.
Blood came fast, shocking,
red spilling out like paint on stone,
too vivid for this dark night,
too much for the world to bear.
And for a moment, it felt like even the ground
hesitated, like the earth beneath him
didn't want to touch what was left.
He was just a person,
now a broken thing,
a fading echo of what once was.
People screamed, turned away,
but I was still, rooted,
eyes locked on his fading form,
on the way his chest stilled,
on the silence settling over him,
a silence that swallowed his last breath
and mine.
The bullet holes were small, like secrets,
but they told a story loud enough
for all of us to hear,
a final truth seeping out of his skin,
splattered on the street like a prayer
no one was there to answer.
The world held its breath,
but I couldn’t.
I couldn’t stop looking,
couldn’t stop feeling
the weight of it all press down on me,
gripping my chest like a vice.
I felt the weight of him there,
his body emptied of life,
of the small and precious things
we think we’re owed,
of the dreams he carried slipping away,
leaving nothing but stillness,
leaving nothing but the smell of iron
and rain-soaked concrete.
The sound of his fall,
of his body surrendering,
was loud and sharp,
but the silence that followed
was colder than anything I’ve known.
It wrapped around me like a blanket,
but it wasn’t warm,
it was suffocating.
And still, that sound,
that crack, that shattering,
it’s there, replaying in my head,
like a broken record spinning,
etching itself deeper each time,
refusing to fade,
making sure I carry it with me
like a scar that never heals.
It’s the thing I hear when I’m alone,
when everything else falls away,
and I can’t escape it,
can’t escape what I saw.
The worst part?
Every loud sound after that—
a door slamming,
a car backfiring,
a distant shout—
they all feel like echoes,
familiar cracks that slice through me,
sharp and too close.
I freeze, heart racing,
trapped in the fear of it all
coming back in an instant,
in the silence that follows
like a threat.
I am always waiting for it,
waiting for the next shot,
the next crack in the air,
the next person to fall.
There are days when I can’t breathe,
when the fear creeps up my spine
like it’s a part of me now,
like it’s in the air I breathe,
the food I eat,
the moments between the seconds
when I’m not looking.
It’s in the cracks of everyday sounds—
the rumble of tires on the road,
the sharp sound of footsteps in the hallway,
the buzz of a phone vibrating on the table.
Each one of them,
just a reminder of what’s still in me,
what’s still hanging in the air
from that moment.
I don’t know how to explain it,
but I feel cold.
Cold all the time,
like the world’s warmth has slipped away,
like I’m standing in the snow
and I can’t remember how to get inside.
People move around me,
but I don’t feel them,
don’t feel their words,
don’t feel anything anymore
except the cold that wraps around my chest.
I try to reach for warmth,
but it slips through my hands
like smoke.
The worst part is the quiet after,
the numbness that settles in deep,
where everything feels distant,
like I’m watching my own life from a far-off place,
a place where things don’t matter,
where things just… happen.
The crowd is gone,
the street is quiet,
and the rain has come,
washing away the blood.
But nothing stays.
Nothing stays but the cold.
The emptiness in my chest,
the echo of a life lost
that I never knew,
never touched,
and will never forget.
The world moves on,
but I don’t.
I’m just here.
Frozen in the cold.
Stuck in the silence.
Stuck in the sound.
