2/14/11

Wounded
By Megan Kelley


I’ve been shot

with an arrow.

the razor sharp

edges of the steel,

the serrated edges

on the head, tear

my flesh, fiber by fiber.

I can feel this arrow moving

deeper into my torso.

perhaps it is endangering my life,

but I can’t feel any pain,

as long as the arrow is moving forward.

the edges of this arrow

are so fine, and so sharp,

that my flesh gladly parts

under their pressure.

I make no effort to stop the arrow

as it moves,

naturally,

forward.

I glance down at the long silver

bloodstained arrow

protruding from my side.

a seed is planted in my mind

that perhaps losing so much blood

is unhealthy.

the entry wound is small,

just as wide as the arrow head,

but blood pours from the tiny orifice;

my very soul comes out

among the blood.

I get it in my mind

that I should remove this arrow,

for the sake of my life.

experimentally,

I grasp the arrow shaft,

slippery with crimson.

at the moment I give a small tug,

white hot pain shoots through my side,

up my nerves at lightning speed,

up to my brain where the pain

explodes, expands.

every fold and wrinkle of my brain

is flattened out from the blast force

of this black panic,

this white-hot pain.

involuntarily,

out of pure instinct,

I’ve let go of the arrow shaft.

my heart is beating at a wild gallop

and my breath escapes my lungs

in ragged, erratic gasps.

what was that?

my thoughts travel back down

my burnt-out nerves, back

to the site of the intrusion.

for the first time,

I feel that there are two points

backwards,

balancing out the razor sharp

forward point.

the backwards points

weren’t so carefully crafted.

they are dull and gritty,

irritating, searing against anything

they encounter.

although the pain has ended

for a bit,

I still sense the presence of the two

backward points.

just as my blood had started to clot

around the arrow,

I pulled on it, and now

post-pain I’m bleeding freely.

alarm begins as a tiny echo

in the back corner of my frazzled brain.

I won’t stop bleeding.

how will I get this arrow out?

how will I survive?

backwards is not an option.

my brain rejects the very thought

of enduring such searing pain.

and forwards?

is this arrow really going to encounter

a vital organ?

or will it pass through mere tissue,

cartilage and muscle,

inessential?

I have no way of knowing.

two options lay in front of my eyes:

endure the pain

or take my chances.

neither choice is comfortable,

neither choice is safe.

either choice puts my heart and soul

in danger.

but what arrow is this?

why have I been shot?

I attempt to wrangle my thoughts

into coherent bunches,

and recall what sick,

vile, sadistic creature

impaled me with this silver arrow,

now shining with crimson.

nothing comes to me.

I must act soon, either

push it forward or yank it

backwards.

balancing between my choices is robbing me

of my time alive.

as yet more blood pours

out of my side,

my brain grows hazy

with foreign emotions,

of jubilance at choice, and freedom,

and hope.

as I gasp the stale air,

not enough to keep me conscious,

I remember the marksman

to whom I was victim,

the marksman who is watching me now,

and smiling.

Cupid.


- - -
I am a high schooler that is trying to figure out love and the future. I think I love someone, but most everyone says... teenagers can't fall in love. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed my poem!