Two Sides to a Twenty-Two

Hey there narrative poetry, you're still cool, right?

You shot me.
Twice.
Once in the chest
and I would have survived it
because you used a twenty-two
And again
in the head as I fell.
The bullet struck me
under the chin
pierced my flesh
and punched through my
hard pallet.
It deviated there
just slightly
losing momentum
beginning to spin.
It was too slow then
and too fat
to pierce my skull
so it bounced around.
My brain leaked into my mouth
and I could still taste it
and then I struck the ground.
You shot me because I was breaking into your home.
Outside it was snowing
and your security lights,
and the smoke from the chimney,
and the mail strewn across your stoop
they seemed so inviting.
You had a keyless entry
which is to say no lock at all
and you think you warned me
and you will say you did so twice
but I was busy and did not hear you.
You shot me with your fathers gun
that he gave you
when you moved to the city
the one you swore you would never use
but that inside you wanted to.
On the news
tomorrow morning they will say
"This mother would do anything
to protect her children."
and you will wish that
they didn't sound so pleased.
Because you will remember
that I wore a wedding ring
and that in my wallet there were pictures
of me with my two sons.