A Blues in Bronze

I have bruises from bite marks. My cunt is sore from stretching around a fist. I was blindfolded for hours. I passed a test, and failed another. I am sick of trying, sick of working at it, sick of looking, sick of disappointing or being disappointed.

I can't integrate this into all the other parts of my life, I'm sorry for that. My work, my family, they wouldn't understand, and I wouldn't expect it. I would be summarily passed over or treated like a mental patient. That's an unhappy truth, but it is what it is. I don't try to change the thoughts of others, it's not my responsibility to explain or justify.

And when did flaunting your personal identity, your sexual self, your fetishes...when did that become what it is that we do? I don't expect anyone to carry an outward sign of their sexuality in any circumstance, why is it so important here? A collar is symbolic, a gesture, not a weapon to use to frighten people with a commitment to your fetishes.

My apologies to anyone who wears their collar publicly. Great for you. I just needed a moment to rant.

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.