Bullet Bruised

Bulletproof, shouldn’t be,
the necessary bare minimum.
Yet, now,
with every word I cease to breathe,
for fear of spewing solar flares,
and cinnamon.
And, each time
I let the pests back in again,
they poke, prod, and paw print
o’er the last of my innocence.
Their thoughts as soldiers sent.
So I revived, bulletproof, in a sense.