Picture me rolling through those hospital doors, doctor asking me about my first visit. You left a bullet in me last time and now it belongs to me, how I take the good with the bad. So much of it that they run together; how a red light turns into a stairway to heaven. So little of living if accurate. She doesn’t mind the colostomy bag against her kin, the feel of my exit wound, sensual between her fingers.
Gangsta in my own right, homey with me keep it too. Lean that stick behind a tree and wave a custo down.
I stay two blocks from dog who shot me. It’s on him too.
All it is to know is in that eight block radius, divided by a main street, store on each side. Revenge is the only way to heal. We stroll to the section way, window down like everyone inside. Down the bumpy face. Down state fair, make a right on Irvington. Give me direction because where I’m going is a healing.
I can’t die.
By Demetrius Buckley