I’ve always been an easy target.
Naturally blonde,
forever too fond,
and too easily forgotten.
My wings are easily clipped
bones often chipped
back always whipped
my blood too bitter to sip
without a chaser,
something to erase
the taste of “her”:
the bulletproof girl
with a spine of pearls
too fragile to withstand
your white-knuckled hands.
I’ve always been an easy target,
so paper thin
you can see straight through
the holes you shot in me.
And you’ve shot me down
more times than I can count
and I’ve survived
more times than I’d like.
But try as I might
to put my bleeding heart
back where it belongs,
it slips through my fingertips
into your waiting arms –
the same arms
that tore it from its place
and rubbed it in my face.
I’ve always been an easy target,
with tears that run red
and pandemonic dread
that can’t hide from you
because it can’t stop screaming,
can’t stop believing
someone will rescue me
before my vocal cords bleed
along with the rest of me.
But targets don’t get rescued;
they get used and thrown away
when they are too damaged
to continue.
I’ve always been an easy target.
Easily broken down,
walked on and beat around.
But these mangled bones
are more than target practice.
They are my foundation,
my molten core.
You can fracture them
but I will fill them with gold,
increase their worth tenfold.
They will stand firm
never squirm
never learn
how to fully break.
I may be an easy target,
but I am resilience incarnate.
I stand strong through it all,
but I get up if I fall.
I may be an easy target,
but you can’t shoot
and keep me down.
I am bulletproof,
no matter what you shoot at me.
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