Bruises.

On reluctant heavy legs I stomped into work this morning.
Cheered only by the feeling of his bruises on my thighs.
By the knowledge of the bright red imprints of his fingers on my flesh,
and the bruises not as yet bloomed with colour.
by the secret hidden bruises of my tender battered cunt.

His bruises were like a shield protecting me from the mundanity of the day.
Reminding me that there is more to this world than that desk and those four walls,
than the stress of that ever looming deadline.
They are a manifestation of a memory: me clinging to him, breathing into his neck as he punched me.
Seeking comfort from that abuse from my abuser.
Showering his chest with kisses of gratitude.
Both before and after he ignored my pleas to stop.

His bruises are my trophy, my shield, my badge, my pride,
His gift to me to make my world brighter.
They are a reminder of what was and what is,
a glimpse of what more might be to come.
They are the burn left by the fire that's inside him,
evidence that his sadism and my masochism collided.
They are proof that I am his,
his to beat,
his to burn,
his to bruise.