Blindfolded, with my noise in your head. Arms bound with soft leather cuffs, outstretched and pinned the way I like. Raw, angry strength on display, now captive, contained, controlled.
The garish light above betrays your subtle shifts, throws shadows, exposes edges.
Like me, the light loves and hates your every curve and angle. I love that light when it reveals the marks of a life well-lived, lessons learned, assorted scars from go-cart accidents, imprints of stitches, the faint outline of an iron burn from years ago when you were old enough to know better, remnant spots of chicken pox and embedded cinders from past lives in northern winters.
Both your marks and movements tell the story of where you’ve been and where you are, stubborn still, but with me now, for the moment, pliant.
I will leave my own marks on your life well-lived, deep enough, I hope, that under some other garish light, you will look back and think softly of the girl who made them.