Between Bruises & Blooms

Sometimes
the knife
hit the wall.

Sometimes
the floor.

Sometimes
something else
in the room
became the thing
that caught
what had been thrown
in my direction.

And afterward

there it was.

A mark.

A dent.

A little piece
of evidence
the room kept
even when I tried
to pretend
everything was fine.

Walls are funny
that way.

They don’t minimize.

They don’t say

he was just angry.

They don’t say

he didn’t mean it.

They don’t remind you
that he missed.

The wall simply keeps
the wound.

A small scar
in plaster
saying

something happened here.

Something sharp
crossed this room.

Someone stood
on the other side
of it.

For a long time
I thought survival
meant proving
I could forget.

Now I think
survival
is finally being willing
to remember
without defending you.

Yes.

You threw the knife.

Yes.

I was afraid.

Yes.

You missed.

And no,

that does not make
the story
less violent.