Searching for the Bullet in a Camera Bag

My hands dig into your tissue;
I feel the meat of you. I pinch
the vein to stop the blood before
it gushes out, like your hate for
indifference. I press my fingers
further, my hand nearly enveloped
by your tender skin.
I search the camera bag for the bullet
like rolling the camera film, its
substance, its canvas; and I think
I am only pulling out a negative
that has developed into a bullet.
Once it is done, I fix the print
into a solemn, oily picture and have it framed
for the wake. Sleep peacefully, the pain
is gone.

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