arrows

one year on, one year on

Two arrows

glow fiery red across my wrist

An arrow points to my hand

which I have been told

is a gun.

An arrow that can end me.

Another arrow drags down my

pale, too thin wrist.

I know I'm small.

I know I'm too skinny.

But I must become as thin

as the arrows that can end me.

The arrow that drags down my wrist

halves a vein

like my gender

and is as fiery red as the one color I crave.

Male, female, you must choose.

Both?

No, you can't do that.

Male or female.

The one you were born with.

The arrow that drags down my wrist

halves a vein,

burns in pain,

keeps me sane,

tells me my name.

The arrow points up to a loaded gun,

down to a scored arm of crimson.

The end that I need

is right here.

Up, or down?

You pick, Noah.

This poem is about: 
Me

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