Dear bullet,

People are imperfect, and I hope you acknowledge this when you reminisce on your spat-into-blackness birth. On the moment of release your head hit the roof. Your youth was a battle for space and a race in any direction to whatever light. But you persisted and despite another knock flew from me like a shot from a sling. But the damage was done: your course swerved in my darkness and post-exit my slime sapped your sheen. You'll probably stick into a frame in the wall rather than breech the atmosphere. But you're outside me now and I will never know.