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My fists are small, my arms are weak, And my aim is downright pathetic. I cannot watch doctors administering Shots and needles and things Without shuddering. I struggle to open heavy doors. I claim a full five feet of height To my name, and my posture Makes it less. I love soft things and cry at sunsets, Write poetry, love endlessly, Pat small children on the head, Twirl in the rain, and Scurry up tall trees like a spider monkey. My soft fingertips have never curled Around the barrel of a gun. I can't stand to see others hurt, So why Do these words fly from me, Sharp as knives, quick as razors, Cruel and heartless. I laugh At the pain my words bring. I smile Around insults and accusations. Here is my arsenal- my lips and tongue and mind, Even my heart. Without a gun or sword or weapon of Any kind, I kill.

Copyright © | Year Posted 2017

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