the shield

she grips the shield 
slammed against her chest
her knuckles tight with 
blood and muscle
people often mistake the metal glint 
as though she herself 
were made of it,
the bitter hardness, 
her own.
and no wonder, 
the metal shield
has practically fused itself to her,
glued with fear and 
caked with 
sticky wounds that have only
just begun 
to stop bleeding. 
she wants to climb out from behind it,
beckon them back,
explain.
she has been hurt, 
accused, 
cast aside,
battered in too many battles,
wounded in too many wars
she trembles at the thought 
of not 
hiding behind the shield. 
can't they see the wounds?
can't they see the scars. 
i want her to know.
she IS seen. 
she is NOT defined by that shield,
behind it is an 
incredibly soft and tender thing, 
eager to love 
and be loved,
she is made of the softest flesh,
a vibrant and living 
beating heart.
she knows she has 
[impulsively at times]
pulled out her own sword
welding it, 
slashing it, 
drawing blood in 
others.
she does not fill the air with 
excuses or
shy away from 
battles 
she blazed herself into. 
but here, now. 
she lays it down. 
she is tired. 
of fighting.
of being emptied of 
blood and flesh
and clinging to 
fear, 
hurt, 
rejection. 
she is asking 
quietly.
humbly.
is it possible for me to 
lay down my shield, 
my sword
and begin to heal?
is anyone out there
willing to help me 
clean out my wounds, 
sew up my cuts 
and tend to my scars?
i am soft. 
i don't even like the smell of 
blood and metal.
i am tender. 
i am sorry for the hurt 
i inflicted.
now i am standing here, 
exposed, 
with nothing to 
hide behind,
no rusty shield to 
cover me,
someone please help me
make my 
softness sing
and my tenderness 
shout for 
joy.