“I thought I was the arrow, / but I was the wound.”

—Rosamund Lupton

I thought I was the arrow—

swift and certain,

destined for the curve of your palm

or the bullseye of your heart.

Drawn back not in hesitation,

but in the promise of arrival.

I mistook ache for momentum,

thought the pull was purpose—

not pain.

I thought I moved forward—

but I only held still.

Instead,

I was the wound—

the soft place you pressed

your history into,

your leaving,

your longing,

your grief.

A silence blooming red

beneath someone else’s aim.

You mistook me for a weapon

because I bled with elegance.

But I am not your aftermath.

Not your battlefield.

Not your lesson learned too late.

Still—

some nights,

I feel the ghost of your hands

tracing the edge of my ache,

like maybe

you miss the place

you once hurt.

And yet—

I am no longer the still point.

No longer the echo

of what didn’t go as planned.

You did not break me.

I broke open.

And the opening—

however unwanted—

became a kind of knowing.

I no longer confuse motion with meaning,

pain with proof,

longing with love.

Now, when I ache,

it is not for return,

but for the parts of me

I abandoned

believing I was the arrow—

and for the quiet hope

that they are still waiting

to be reclaimed.