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?