Hickey

It will be gone by tomorrow. The brownish, reddish, purplish, greenish 4 centimeter bruise that has been fading since last week when he marked me with it.

But for right now it serves as a painful reminder that sins committed in the skin only serve to damage the mind.

It tells me that once this body was his and that there are pieces of it left behind with him.

I stare at it, and watch it get larger and larger until it engulfs my thoughts.

It drowns me.

As my scar ridden porcelain skin soaks in the bath I wonder how I will ever remove these scars from my mind, if I cannot remove them from my body.

Shallow, fresh cuts taunt the discolored contusion, in both size and reason of existence. They wonder how a lesion could be born of the same passion that destroyed me and created them.

There is no doubt that this mark deserves no beautiful words.

Call it by its name.

Hickey.

This poem is about: 
Me

Comments

Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741