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Arrow to my Past
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Me, Myself, And Am I Alive? You pull the arrow out of my chest, a crude stopper for the blood that comes pouring out in some secondary after thought.
You tell me that it can no longer hurt me and that I don't have to think of it anymore.
And then blame me when you get blood on your hands. Tell me to suck it up and heal faster. It has been a month, and I realize it has been in your chest for four years and infection has settled around it, and that healing takes time.
But I don't understand why you haven't healed fully and why you still have phantom pains that plague you every now and then.
And I realize that when I poke at it with toys shaped like the exact arrow that almost stopped your heart it will bleed, but you didn't have to get it all over your shirt.
I got rid of something that almost ended my life only to be told I wasn't healing fast enough for other people.
