target

I feel more than hear
arrows slicing through the air near my head;
engraved with rain and blood,
green leaves and blue sea,
curve of hip and blessing of whisper.
My heart is perforated
from previous attacks;
the wounds seep and scab
and scar.
I stand among walls
studded with missed opportunities;
my bed is feathered
with mistakes and lessons,
and I find
more arrows littering the ground
with notes tied on with string.
Bending to read one,
I am shot trough the ribs
again.
I draw the thorn
from my side, and it says
I love you.