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The Arrow's Monologue
I long for the polished curve
of the archer’s bow,
the creak of the straining string,
the cramped nestling of my family
in the choking leather musk of the quiver.
The only happiness I know
is the bleeding spirals of the target,
the satisfaction of perfect aim,
the thunk of the arrowhead
sliding into notched wood
like a key clicking in a lock,
like hand slipping into hand,
like a lost child finally finding home.
The only langauge I understand
is the song of flight,
the melody of wind and motion
as the rigid straightness of my shaft
slices scars into the yielding air,
my fletched feathers
a bright exclamation point
in the story of my body.
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This piece was written for an assignment in my creative writing class.