The first sting, sudden, sharp, splits air.
It lands before we have time to think.
Pain is immediate, true, the first arrow.
The wound speaks nothing but what it is.
The second arrow arrives quieter, softer,
but it burrows deeper than the first.
It twists, it tangles, it plants blame.
What did I do to deserve this ache?
It asks questions that flood every corner.
It colors the pain with shades of regret.
Perhaps I am not strong enough, it whispers.
Perhaps I am not made for weathering storms.
But reality holds no answers for that knife.
It’s a blade of our own sharpening, isn’t it?
They say the first arrow does harm enough—
but it’s the second we must learn to deflect.