I hear people all the time telling me

“Yo. When you hear bullets, hit the floor.”

I always thought they were saying

“yo, when you hear bullets hit the floor…

and they never finished their sentence.

So the first time I heard bullets…

I hit the floor alright.


There I was, between two graffiti-stained brick walls,

Laying on that concrete garbage-stenched floor

It was raining.

My oversized hoodie covered me like a body bag,

Sleeves swallowing my hand

I was comfortable.

With this blanket of soaked wet clothes on top of me,

I was at peace.

Until it came the moment to “huuuuuu” (deep heavy breathe)

The agony, knowing that I’d have to do it again in five seconds

“huuuuuu” not even enough energy to yelp for help

but it didn’t matter because no one was around to hear me

since it was raining.


Do you know why bullets don’t have names?

Because half the people shooting them do not know how to spell.

Stop treating bullets like infants.

Don’t worry about name on the bullet

And worry about the name on the fucking gun

“huuuuu” here I am. On this solid surface,

my deathbed is a bedrock.

I’m not crying because it hurts,

I’m crying at the sight of this red river

Flowing out of the side of my body like the life that I cling to

It was raining

It was raining bullets.



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