When I was a child, I was bulletproof.
My scabbed wounds and sticks-and-stones attitude
shielded me better
than my mother ever could.

The scar tissue of my scraped knees and raw fingertips
built up
more protection
than I needed.

Alas, that was childhood.
I didn't want to be protected.

Now I am weak.

I am fragile and pale
I can see my pulsing
sickly blue veins
and feel my out of time
and off-beat heart
throbbing in pain.

Now I am unprotected.
Now I'd give anything for a bulletproof vest.