Not on me, though that would be handy because I’m a delicate flower and always have bruises of some sort. You know the kind: those ones that appear in odd places and you have no idea how they got there. The ones where you run into something and think ‘Wow, that’s gonna bruise later’, but later when you find it, you have no recollection of what you did to deserve it.
Not that kind.
I like the ones that I leave on him.
The marks of time spent trying to get through his skin so I can touch him from the inside.
The ones that form under welts or redness or maybe they bloom almost immediately rushing blood to the surface in protest.
The ones that stay behind when his body recoils, but his mind is floating and he doesn’t even feel it any more.
The ones that say ‘too much’ but they are never enough. For either of us.
The ones that I know you will admire later, twisting in a mirror to glory in the memory of how they got there.
The ones that you will secretly press with fingertips amidst innocents and wince and smile and then press a little harder.
The ones that rainbow from dark purple to blue to green to yellow until, sadly, they become skin coloured again.
The ones that feel like loss when they leave your body.
I really like them a lot.