Bullet Hole

I remember
one bit of graffiti
in particular.
But it was
and could hardly
be defined as graffiti
at all.
It was a shape—
a little hollow
in the hall
leading up to the offices.
I thought
it looked like
a bullet hole.
I imagined an irate senior
storming down the halls,
his face like a rain cloud
about to burst with frustration.
Maybe he was holding
a weapon
and made this particular dent.
I stuck my pinky finger
inside it and wondered,
twisting my finger like
a screwdriver,
as if my twisting
would enlarge the hole.

Return to Chapter 2 | Read Chapter 4

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