One was used to strike at a man. For a feeling of release. From the hate from which I ran. Each one a memory. One was used to strike at love. To make me feel like I meant. Something to the ones I didn't trust. Each one a memory. And each one felt like a broken bone. Beneath it all growing wound. Currents. Under whispers and tears. Undercurrents of fear. Realized. One was used to strike at me. To show the world I didn't care. That I couldn't feel the fear. Each one a memory. You can't expect to let the arrows. Fly without paying up the toll. These aren't arrows anymore. This is an act of control. I don't want to spend the rest of my life. Fighting and self condemned. What's the use in ten years of scars. If you don't learn a thing from them?