I feel good.
I feel...
Uncommonly sexy in the prison I wear for you—
in the bruises you gave me which shift softly over the days—
(a friend of mine remarked, and I agree, that one in particular has blossomed into just the colours of a ripe peach, that particular contrast between purple-red and golden yellow.
I took a photo of that, and will keep it, in case you would like to see. No doubt it will have faded by that time. No doubt I will miss the spots that I can prod to recall an echo of a sweetly remembered pain. Perhaps I will ask you slyly to give me bruises that last longer next time.)
in the knee-high striped socks I did not even show you I was wearing—
in the soft words of appreciation and encouragement that hold my anxiety like a tiny furry pet and stroke and soothe it calm—
yes, I am wanted here, wanted now, wearing my invisible chains, my range of custom smiles selectively curated to be compatible with an almost entirely platonic kind of kinship.
