When the bullet was shot,

They shouted run

Instead, I stood still

And watched

As gunpowder filled the lonely air

I wondered; what is it that I have to run from?

Death?

Why would I run from death?

When I have died countless times already

See, this body is a tomb

A walking dead

A ghost

I have buried enough pieces of me

To form a cemetery

I die every time a bullet cuts a branch off my family tree

Don’t you sometimes wonder why I buy myself flowers?

These martyrs that rest in me

I crown them,

Water their roots

Hoping they will re-live in me,

I want to be here when they breathe again.