Why do we do this to each other?
We paint targets on each other's backs;
targets no one else can see.
Ready. Aim. Fire!
You hit me hard
right through my heart.

Pain travels throughout.
It makes no sense to me. We see
these targets and know they're
wrong.
Why keep shooting?

I want to scrub yours off
but you insist on wearing it like a trophy.
A trophy of what?
There's nothing to celebrate in pain.

Need to think
A way to get through to you
I know
You know that you know also.
This need not be a tragedy.