Bruises

When I think of you, it hurts. But in a good way—the way that rough sex hurts. It's supposed to hurt; if it doesn't hurt, you're doing something wrong. These feelings I have leftover, I guess, they're kind of like a bite mark or a bruise. They're still here, even though you're gone and everything's over, and they really only hurt when I fuck with them, like when I think about them too much or look at them too hard or poke at them just to see. I've come to be proud of the bruise you left on me. I cover it up, no one knows it's there but me. Sometimes I forget about it, and then someone accidentally touches it or something and I'm reminded. It's painful, but I smile a little bit, thinking of how it got there. But your mark is gonna start to fade any day now. Someday I'm gonna hear your name, and I'm not gonna feel that quick, sharp pain like someone jabbed me in a hidden wound. I'm not going to feel anything.