It is late, and finally I am in that brief peaceful time between when the children are in bed and I go to bed. Although I am engaged in chat with several people right now, including you, I get up and head to the bathroom, saying nothing polite to anyone because I cannot be bothered to take the time. I remove my shirt and stare at myself in the mirror, and the reminders of you left on my body.
Above my right breast are several small pink marks left by your nails tearing across my skin. My shoulders are covered with fiery red marks. Not your standard high school hickeys but actual hard bite marks purple in a few places but mostly that screaming, crying red; the kind that lets you know it really hurt. There are other bruises on my shoulders as well, but they aren't really yours, are they?
It is surprising to me that I am so fascinated by these marks. So entranced by them. I am cataloguing them and memorizing them not certain of their meaning but knowing that I carried away the more concrete reminder of our time together. You get only the memory; I get the marks, which I can look at any time. That is my special possession, but you know I am not possessive; you have only to ask to see them.
I could never stand it when lovers left their emblem on my skin. I am tired of the word "mark" so I pause here and look for an alternative; my Thesaurus says thus " a device pointing distinctly to origin of ownership" and think that perhaps the word "mark" is a good one after all. I think I will use the word over and over again after all, but you know why don't you?
I now finally allow my mind to slip back to the morning and afternoon activities. We explored pain together, and made a show of it, in my large sumptuous bed made for sensual activities, but there are few who could understand our kind of sensuality.
