Quiver Of Bandages

The quiver full of bandages—

Blood-tinged flight feathers from years of bandaging.

Bandaging with arrows,

Healing with death, with killing.

Those arrows broke open my flesh,

Allowing trapped, embodied emotions

To bleed out in the sunlight.

With each arrow loosed,

Each dull impact of point upon prey,

Each gasp of breath—

Bandaged.

The feeling was not enjoyable; it was not pleasant.

Often, debridement causes extreme discomfort.

Obliged to heal, the debridement continues—

Scrubbing upon scabbed wounds until they freely bleed

Fresh, clean blood.

A single loosed bandage from my quiver of arrows

Landed cleanly through the intended target—

A sickening plunge,

Shearing and tearing its way through—

Realizing too late,

I was being healed.

With each token of life placed upon my wall of memories,

This wounded heart began to heal.

The years of debridement worked.

The hunt is now over.

Healing through death—

Death brought rebirth.