M (for the Masochist)

I knew a girl that wore her bruises as if it had never occurred to her that it was a sin.

She called them 'love bites' (they were not),
but they were one and plenty.
Red and black and blue;
and beautiful
like the amorphous glimmer
of dying stars.  

And she wore them with honour;
for how could she possibly hate anything from those hands?

Impossible, impossible.

Lover, don't frown—lover, she loved it!

Could you ever understand that?

Cocksure

He had a tattoo that started (or ended) at that area right above his groin.

It was of a dragon or a snake (or whatever boys think is manly these days).

I asked him where it ended, and he smiled and said, "Would you like to find out?"

and I thought; what an obnoxious little fuck.

Well,
let's have a look, then.