Between Bruises & Blooms

You always missed.

That is the sentence
people might mistake
for mercy.

He threw knives,
but he always missed.

As though the blade
passing beside me
instead of through me

somehow made
the throwing
less terrifying.

As though accuracy
was the crime.

Not the hand.

Not the rage.

Not the moment
metal left your fingers
and entered
the space around my body.

You always missed.

Maybe because
you meant to.

Maybe because
you didn’t.

I stopped trying
to solve that question
a long time ago.

There is no answer
that makes it better.

Intent
does not soften
the sound
of a knife
hitting something
behind you.

Intent
does not tell
your nervous system

don’t worry,
he probably wasn’t
actually trying
to hit you.

The blade flew.

I was there.

That is enough.

You always missed.

And somehow
I spent years
being grateful
for your bad aim

instead of horrified

that someone
who claimed
to love me

was throwing knives
at me
at all.