He was marked the day I met him, his arms and chest etched with history that is not mine.
His marks are the inscriptions of a life well-lived, mistakes made, and lessons learned. Some are the marks of insult and injury, and some are the marks of battles fought and won.
They’re beautiful and I love them.
But sometimes, I hate them. I want to scratch them from his skin.
His marks — the ones than bind him — they aren’t mine, nor were they made for me. They predate me. They’ll survive me. They aren’t a part of him that’s mine.
They’re lovely, but unmoving, and impossible to change. I don’t appreciate their permanence or their unwillingness to move.
Sometimes I hate them for their existence, for mocking my impermanence.
I hate them for binding him before me, because they’ll bind him even after I am gone.
I hate his marks, not because they are his, but because they are not mine.
I will leave my own marks, deep enough, I hope, that you will look back and think softly of the girl who made them… [read more]
It’s the sight of a marked man on his knees and wanting nothing more than to hold him up… [read more]
Every subtle shift remakes him. He changes his topography, redraws his perimeters, and transforms himself for me… [read more]