Sometimes when I walk home
and it’s dark
I imagine getting shot in the back of the head
a little cylinder lodged between my spine and skull
nestling into a dense chunk of nerves

It would be bloody
warm and wet, dripping down the back of my neck
I would touch it and
rub the lava into my thumbs and palms

Or if I fell
blood would pool beside me
shimmering like night-time gasoline
finding ways to trace me and slip
between my buttcheeks, if I’m on a hill

It would taste like metal when I start coughing it up
it would feel like a sports game when it streams out my ears

the materials of my body presented to me like
that halloween game with buckets and blindfolds

That’s what I sometimes imagine when I walk home
and it’s dark.