[BIO]: Diane is currently pursuing her medical doctorate at St. George’s University, Grenada.
I’ve been shot
and I think the mountain of fire that scorched through me
into a cauldron
relentlessly spilling over my head.
The lava seeps into my veins; straight path to my heart.
Like so many things have before,
but this time,
this is the pain of a thousand bullets.
I toy with the attempt to make an analytical decision on which is worse:
the breath-stopping impalement from the first shell raging through my chest
or the agonizing black hole that remains there, rotting
is the puppet show at the children’s hospital,
continuously attempting to run interference between my mind’s awareness and the deep wound,
as if it’s just not there
but surely this is a farcical illusion.
For as soon as I forget,
I am reminded.
It bleeds out, slowly,
making its way around the curvature of my heart
coursing through every angle of my body, tugging on each nerve as it flows past.
Like the full-body rush from your shot of heroin, except this time, it’s laced;
Instead of falling back in ecstasy, you collapse in paralyzing agony.
Profound numbness sets in.
Except the hole.
The lesion is still eroding.
all around me,
I feel it.
I must be melting.
I am melting.
Give me something to heal
give me something to make it stop
I sit and burn
from the inside out.