Hands in Neutral

I have that kind of skin. Pale. Not in that peaches and cream delicate china way, but nearing translucence in parts. I've never been careful of it. Mosquito bites scratched to scars. Sun damage masquerading as freckles.

Bruised easily.

Once, I would spot a new bruise in the shower, poke it a bit, and wonder how it was obtained. Of course, that was before the significance of bruising.

Now I see one on my arm and think...that was grabbing. Or pulling. If there is one on my thigh, I picture fingers grasping, forcing me outspread. Tiny ones on my wrist are bindings. On my throat, squeezing out my breath.

Temporary maps of my submission.

They fade so quickly. If only there was a way to make them permanent, for each to flare hotly when He touches me. Strike by numbers.