Bullets

The hole in my heart,
Caused by the bullet of a deadly weapon,
Expands with every breathe I take.

Not just any gun, or pistol,
But it's the weapon of life
That is the root of my pain.

I dread for it's removal
For it is now lodged in the corners of my throat,
And an irritating sense of helplessness roams.

I will, for eternity, have the weight of guilt
Resting upon my already-bruised shoulders
And preventing me from taking a step to refuge.

No surgeon or priest can heal this wound.
This injury that I have caused to settle upon me
Will forever more be apart of my soul.

This is what she had said to the mirror
Awaiting a reply that would never approach
As she desperately mends the hole in her heart.