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test, test
[111 words]
the bullet missed my heart
by a millimeter
any further to the left
& I would have died
in the passenger seat of her car
while she aimed for soft tissue
her verbal viewfinder
aligned perfectly with my aorta
most days I was held hostage
in her high-caliber silence
while she pressed its cold
barrel to my temple muteness
weaponized designed to maim
the safety off
when we fought she always chose
whatever did the most damage
upon exit her words
loaded into metal chamber
agents of hollow-point cruelty
that exploded on impact
& tore merciless through raw flesh
I bled out on synthetic leather
while she drove too fast
on the freeway.
Dara Goodale (they/she) is a Romanian-American lesbian, poet, and university student living in Lausanne, Switzerland. They write about mental health, grief, and identity. Their work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cleaver Magazine, Underbelly Press, The B’K, Thimble Literary Magazine, and The Passionfruit Review. You can find them on Instagram @daragoodale
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