shoot me

i’m always the target practice

at every social gathering and family reunion

relatives

family friends

take aim as they hit me

with question after question

comment after comment

just to laugh and sneer

until i reach breaking point

eager eyes and wide smiles

follow me as i cower behind backs

but to no avail

because they always find me

corner me to a wall

firm handshakes snap handcuffs

to let me know there’s no escape

i shut my eyes

clench my fists

as i brace myself in anticipation for the reprehensible traumatic torture

a conversation

when you suffer from social anxiety

it’s a struggle to find the words

that describe just how much you fear talking

my internal screaming obliterates coherent sentences

i stare mindlessly at the stretching and shrinking of cheeks

try to ease my heartbeat to that persistent, slow movement

to avoid glancing up at the disapproval rimmed eyes that speak so forcefully

i can’t hear anything

ask me about my future

better yet plan it out for me

as i detach myself completely

and listen to you narrate someone else’s story

ask me again whether or not i have a boyfriend

take my silence and embarrassment as confirmation

and encouragement to pester on

ask me what i look for in a potential husband

take my lack of interest as a phenomenon you can’t seem to comprehend

force me to tell you how many boys i’ve kissed

how many boys i’ve screwed

because all i’ll hear

are the clicks of you locking my closet door

compare me to your textbook perfect sons and daughters

better yet throw me into a room so that i can make friends

stare at me when tears well up with no provocation

they fall just as easily as your judgment

year after year

the remarks sting worse and worse

when i get home

the words carve themselves into my brain

when i’m at my lowest

their voices are the ones

that guide me when razor blades slice through flesh

but expose the red lines that remind me

i am alive

i am human

not a painting in a museum

waiting to hear your interpretation

not a drained corpse in a lab

sprawled on the cold table

ready for you to take me apart

piece by piece for analysis

not a faceless shadow on the floor

that you pounce on the moment it stops

running

or maybe it is just me

your words may be the bullets

your eyes may be the barrels

your body may reek of gunpowder

but in the end

it’s only my fingers

wrapped around a trigger