You had a gun to my heart.
I had a knife to your chest.
But we were both too
afraid
to let the other bleed out.
Why did we always
come back to weapons,
to cutting words,
to searing gestures,
to the things that left me aching for days?
Why did it all
have to be so violent?
And why,
why does it all still hurt
sometimes,
when my eyes find their
way to the scars?
