Words are bullets.
When released they cannot be taken back.
And pierce your heart.
We hold these weapons close with fingers pressed to the triggers.
Fearing that someone may call us out to a show down.
I am no gun slinger.
I have lost my share of battles.
Wounds that bleed enough to drown in oceans of pain and suffering.
When we win we are showered in a feeling and for a moment thinking our bullet holes will close.
But that’s not the truth.
Trying to fix it but nothing does.
I was an innocent child when I was introduced to this war of words.
Second grade.
Clinging to the walls in fear of an unknown room.
The protector I turned to in these buildings of education.
She made an example out of me.
I was a child.
You’ll never.
You’re retarded.
These words fell from her lips so easily.
Like shooting an unarmed child was an accomplishment.
When my parents heard of this they defended me.
But they couldn’t save me.
I was moved to the back of the class and shot down over and over again.
The room was stained with my blood but I’d never cry in front of them.
Fearful to show any weakness.
I did something no child at that age should have done.
Placed a fortress around the new wounded organ within my chest.
The one that girls doodle around the names of their crushes.
Something we call the heart.
I’d never let anyone close enough to draw their weapons.
Keeping them too far for their bullets to touch the already mangled lump of flesh.
But I was alone and slowly growing cold from within.
Years of this lead to a darkness in middle school.
I walked with the Grim Reaper.
Held his hand and spoke about tomorrow.
Curious to see if I would be there to greet it.
Or if our walk wasn’t going to end.
These were my days of war.
Until another that lived in a fortress met me.
Stole my guns and hung them up out of my reach and hid the bullets.
Before tearing down the walls.
Just to kiss the wounds I tried so desperately to hide.
Why can’t we drop our bullets and end this war before our children live in the a fortress?
