He was an old gun, with a hard kick.
Every blow came back harder than the last.
Leaving her body with galaxies of purple,
She burned from the outside in.
Kept covered in layers of smoke,
The air choked her silent.
Shameful thoughts, another shot.
Over dependency for something,
To keep the shooter safe;
She stayed.

She was a hay bale target, straw thin.
She stood trapped in chafing rope,
Thought she wouldn’t abandon for a reason.
Words of what is love
Words of undermining confidence-
In coincidence, she had none.
“No one will love you but me”,
Made a field fire in the hay.
A burning target she became,
Until she was shot with anti-flame.

He was the sense of security
To keep away danger
But he was the danger himself
Violent in nature
He was a weapon.