Between Bruises & Blooms

I knew it was coming.

That is the cruelest part.

I knew the words.
Knew the moment.
Knew exactly where the blade
would slip between my ribs.

I have been here before—
twice this year,
three times now,
walking willingly
back toward the same fire.

Still,

when he said her name
like it was something sacred,

when he chose her
with all her grief still burning,

when he said,
I claim you too,

my throat closed
around a sob
I thought I had already survived.

Funny,
how knowing the wound
doesn’t make the knife
any duller.

How some stories
do not become safer
with familiarity.

They simply learn
exactly where
to cut.

So here I am again,
eyes burning,
heart cracked open
for a woman made of fire
who spent so long
believing she had to burn alone.

Third time through.

Same words.

Same wound.

Still crying
like I never saw it coming.