"This time, baby, I'll be bulletproof"

I used to laugh at the words as the came through the speakers of the stereo. The line was dripping with the same corny cliche as so many before it. It was always the same: "the person I loved broke my heart and it feels as if I were shot but I'm gonna learn from it blah blah blah". Maybe it was your fault for allowing yourself to be vulnerable in the first place. Ever think of maybe taking some of the blame for yourself? Of course not.

You're the victim.

You never asked them to smile at you and have it open up your heart like it was some kind of key or secret password.

It's not your fault that, everytime they talked to to you, the butterflies would go crazy in your stomach as if they were caught in a Kansas tornado.

It slipped your mind to put on the bulletproof vest because they were too busy taking over your every thought as if they were in Napoleon's army marching across Europe.

You can't be thrown under the bus for the fact that each touch sent an electric current through your body that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and your heart race like Jeff Gordon behind the wheel during the Indy 500.

It's all on them for kissing you in such a way that it made you see a thousand stars falling from the sky but you no longer needed a wish because you were already lip-locking with the person of your wildest dreams.

If it weren't for them, your mind would've been your own and you would've smelt the lead and hear them loading the gun, tasted the metal and felt the cold. If it weren't for them you could've dodged the bullet and kept your heart intact. There wouldn't have been this tiny wound that grew into a gaping hole so dark and so black that it sucked away reality all together, leaving you with nothing but your empty shelf of yourself.

But it's not your fault. Of course not. It wasn't my fault either. I'm the victim. Maybe I should write a pop song.

But, for now, I'm putting on the vest so that it's possible that next time maybe I'll be bulletproof.