Every man carries arrows he didn't ask for.
The ones that came from people who were supposed to love him right. The ones from failures that landed when he couldn't see them coming. The ones still lodged from years ago that never fully came out... you just learned to move with them in.
Most men spend their whole life trying to pull those arrows out and throw them away. Pretend they were never hit. Pretend it doesn't still ache when the weather changes.
This is for the other kind of man.
The one who pulled them out, looked at what almost ended him, and decided it wasn't going in the trash. It was going back onto the bow. Every wound he's catalogued. Every betrayal, every loss, every night that broke something in him... he kept it. Because he learned a long time ago that pain doesn't disappear just because you ignore it. It only goes somewhere useful if you point it somewhere.
So he aims forward. Steady hand. Quiet eyes. Drawing back the exact thing that was meant to put him down... and sending it out ahead of him instead.
Healing is a word for men who got to walk away clean.
This is something harder. This is use.
Wear this if you've turned your scars into your arsenal. If nothing that's ever hit you gets to just sit there anymore. If you've decided, quietly, that what was meant to stop you is going to be the thing that gets you there instead.
The arrow returns. So do you.
