All this time later, I still feel the sting of it, the arrow
in my heart, a dart self-inflicted, the way Cupid did himself, aimed at someone
only to have it bounced back and strike me in the place I had aimed for in her,
my heart beats around it, I dare not pluck it out, wishing the whole time she
had been the author of it, and her aim, true, this war we wage with no victors,
just casualties like me, a blow struck, reverberating still inside me each time
my heart beats. Yes, I still bleed.
Had I aimed better or better still, refrained, I might
suffer less, hating the notion I did this to myself and have no one else to
blame, a love-stick Cupid, blind to everything, bleeding deep where it cannot
heal;, my own arrow sticking out of me like a thorn, and all these year later,
my heart pounds at a reminder of my ill luck, while she is off and free, untethered
by any arrow, least of all mine.
No comments:
Post a Comment