Paper recovery

I loved him

(still do)

But his adoration
was nothing more
than a bullet hole
dwelling underneath my flesh,
just waiting
........................(patiently)
to explode

Tiny fragments
of gun powdered hope
have turned my own heart
against me
and now my fingers
act as a pistol
shooting rejected poetry
at every soul hungry
piece of paper
that yearns for words,
even if they are stretched
and formed into a weapon
that kills dreams,
emotions,
and the love for a man
who never even believed in the stuff

At least that's what he told me once

(more than once)