lord, it's a zero-sum game with you.
even the harmless are armed,
and I
am armored, and alarmed.
it's late to figure out
who is a sitting target
with a hole like a bullseye,
having none of it,
that keeps coughing up arrows,
though I have plenty.
i'll keep walking around like this, instead,
with my arms over my head
and over my eyes, my hands.
i'm sick to death of hearing of it.
no amount of prayer will clean out the wounds,
where breaths congeal
and blood runs hot and cold,
where the sweat wells up between midnight and five-
when it's always dark.

i take my comfort in flesh instead.
unafraid in blackness,
beneath your hair, beside your neck, behind my eyelids,
hiding straining skins, violet and red.