i was born with a target in between my legs,
and no matter what i wanted, it grew -
spread across flesh like the new skin stretching
to fit in more places to shoot.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i suppose that means i was doomed from the start -
dead woman walking.
so many dead women were walking.
i grew into the targets on my breasts,
my legs, my ass, my hips,
my dignity.
i learned to flinch away from the gunshots
of strange men calling,
learned that "baby" and "sweetheart" and "honey"
were just bullets so silver
they somehow got away with it.
i know these things shine in the light,
but so do sharpened blades
and i would rather cut myself than be shot against my will.
i was born with a target in between my legs;
something that should be my own,
but which is constantly threatened:
"it should belong to us."
and the targets kept growing while i remained small -
too small to wrestle the gun out of unwanted hands,
and who can outrun bullets anyway?
every day the chamber is loaded with voices
and aimed at women who can't fight back.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and it has spread across my body in ways that could be beautiful
if not for the things they attract.
i didn't ask to be hunted.
and though i stare in fear at the barrels pointed my way,
there is one thing that scares me more:
sometimes dodging bullets gets you killed faster
than letting yourself be shot.
a wounded hunter's ego,
prey betrayed by what they are.
i was born with a target in between my legs,
and i have feared for my life ever since.