Me and the Marksman

have you ever tried to put a band-aid on a bullet wound?

i mean

i’m bleeding out here so why do i have to pretend like i’m not,

i mean

there’s no better way to sharpen an arrow than with “i don’t feel anything for you”

that’s insult to injury and you and i both know it,

i mean,

the arrow by itself would’ve killed me, you didn’t have to dip it in poison. 

 

so i should have just up and left, 

i mean,

i did, 

but not without letting you break my heart

a million more times

i mean, how many times can you tell a person you’re done with them 

before you actually mean it?

one, 

two, 

three, 

four,

fuck it, i can’t count anymore.

you are throwing knives and practically begging me

to never speak to you again, 

each time you tell me what it’s like to kiss someone else 

i want to kill you 

and yet 

i just can’t hear enough of it. 

i let you throw poison darts 

until venom is running through my veins.

black licorice was always your favorite 

and now i have too much in common with it:

i’m bitter, to the point where 

i’m pretty sure only you like me. 

 

i’m starting to hate 

the english language

i mean

when someone’s words can carry that much power over you

you don’t want to listen any more

 

and so i begin to speak instead 

i mean

not speak, but write 

words and sentences and colors and feelings

a true renaissance woman;

not due to her new craft 

but because of the blood letting

i mean 

letting the words write themselves 

using leeches to suck the poison out 

i mean

i can feel myself getting lighter

and it’s not because i’m losing blood 

i’m not losing anything 

i am gaining control 

and i am gaining my life back 

i mean

words really do have power.

it’s up to me how i want to feel about them.

it’s always been up to me.