My skin is scarred with stories;
Many of which I have no desire to be retold.
Veiled under expensive silk;
Patiently lying in wait for my body to be disrobed.
I let you, once, see those scars;
Allowed your eyes to take them in.
You imagined the lines of me captured;
I was drawn into your oeuvre of sin.
Three delicate scars remain from sweet torture.
Resembling a burn from your cigarettes.
Those scars were once seductive.
The sight of them made me weak.
I’d revel in that memory;
Catching myself.
Cutting my tongue across my teeth.
I loved you for giving them to me.
I hate you now for leaving them behind.
As the craven woman I am I’ll walk gently
To keep them from fading away with time.
an invitation to witness the most sacred parts of me 