Bruises

I like staring at the bruises he’s left on me. He didn’t mean to leave them, didn’t mean to mark me in this way. But I love them. I want him to leave more. He wouldn’t, I know he wouldn’t. Would it be bad to ask him to ? Maybe if I asked kindly, batted my eyelashes in the prettiest way, he’d hurt me more. 

I’ve told so many people about the sweet things he’s done. How kind and gentle he is with me. They have no idea about his bruising grip and harsh words. How he plays with my heart, his hands boring into my rib cage. His fingers, ever nimble and precise, tug and strum at the chords of my heart. My soul sings to him like a choir. 

I am rotted with love and desire. It leaks from every crevice of my body, coagulated and grotesque. 

Hurt me more, the rot screams.

The rot aches. 

I ache.

But the bruises that litter my tan skin are oh so pretty, they make up for the pain of my love.