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;
like the amorphous glimmer
of dying stars.
And she wore them with honour;
for how could she possibly hate anything from those hands?
Lover, don't frown—lover, she loved it!
Could you ever understand that?