The arrows that wound me
I have shot myself
The pain I feel I have collected
Left them treasured in my chest
Past living has left me without presents
No gift to give to anyone
All I had was negative tipped arrows
Scabs of the past, I kept scratching.
When vulnerable
It seems that my muscles have
A memory of their own reacting in old ways
My arm reaches behind my back grabs an arrow
Draw the bow back till the string is taut
aim at my reflection
But I do not shoot, I do not shoot.